


The Side of Angels

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Otherwise [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime, Crime AU, M/M, Mystery, Otherwise AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 73,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2848196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the British government approaches Sherlock to assist in dealing with an insidious threat, the stability he’s built in the wake of Jim Moriarty’s downfall is endangered - and he risks bring that threat too close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AGirloftheSouth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGirloftheSouth/gifts).



If John hadn't felt it himself – if he hadn't known Sherlock so well – he would have missed it, the tiny flash of surprise that never made it past the pleasant smile on his partner's face. He felt it only as the barest tensing of fingers as they left his, Sherlock pulling away to greet Irene warmly, brushing a kiss against each of her cheeks.

He should have been used to it by now, but he doubted he'd ever stop marvelling at Sherlock's ability to mask his reactions. John had probably given them both away – but then again, it could be argued that Sherlock had known Irene was coming and simply hadn't bothered telling his partner.

He was saved from finding a cutting comment to make at the faint, gloating smirk that just touched Mycroft's eyes by Olivia barrelling into his legs, locking her arms around his knees and turning her bright grin his way. Any irritation he had over his partner being tricked vanished as he scooped his niece into his arms, dissolving her into shrieks of laughter as he tickled her. He stopped when Aaron, on Irene's hip, looked alarmed, and shifted Olivia to face him, her small cheeks flushed, her hazel eyes bright.

"Hello, lizard," he said, and she pressed an enthusiastic kiss against his cheek.

"'Lo, Uncle John," she replied, squirming to get more comfortable. "I made dinner!"

"Did you?" John asked.

"She was very helpful with the dessert, evidently," Mycroft said, and John couldn't resist a smirk. He wondered if Mycroft had ever cooked anything for himself – or if he'd even know where to start.

 _Probably thinks tea just makes itself_ , John thought. Sherlock, at least, could make his own tea or coffee – quite expertly, too – and John had to admit that his partner was rather proficient in the kitchen when he got it in his head to be.

"Well then," he told his niece, "I'm going to eat all of it."

"And everyone else?" Sherlock asked, arching a dark eyebrow.

"You can have some if you behave," John replied, grinning at the faintly irritated sigh his partner gave. He knew Sherlock would pick up on the warning there – John didn't want a row about Irene's unexpected presence at dinner. If Sherlock hadn't even known she was in London, then Mycroft had a reason for bringing her here, and for the deception.

He had a reason for everything he did, John knew.

Unfortunately, that reason was sometimes nothing more than annoying his baby brother.

If that was the case, he decided, he'd have some quiet words with his brother-in-law. Later. On his own.

Right now, he was determined to make the best of it – it wouldn't be difficult, given the enticing smells wafting from the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock could probably be counted to on to behave, at least through dinner. Not, John thought, repressing a wry smile, because he was there, but because Irene was. It occurred to him to be jealous of the way her presence held Sherlock in check – but if he was honest with himself, she was the reason he wasn't berating Mycroft, either.

That and his niece, who was wriggling out of his arms and snagging his hand, tugging him into the sprawling flat. John managed to get his jacket off in time to pitch it back to Sherlock, who caught it with an affronted glare, underlain by a warning to not dare leave him. John shrugged, flashing a smile over his shoulder.

He was putty in his niece's hands, and always had been.

If that knowledge had escaped Mycroft's notice, John would have eaten any hat he could get his hands on.

It could have been any family dinner – any family that managed to contain Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes anyway – the casual banter and good natured discussion at the table veiling whatever reason Mycroft (or Angela, John supposed) had for bringing them all there. There were the usual barbs between the brothers, but nothing that would force John to intervene, and Sherlock was attentive to David's quiet conversation and to Olivia's remarkably articulate toddler prattle.

He didn't even protest when Irene saddled him with Aaron so she could eat undisturbed, backing his chair up slightly to avoid baby hands in the food or getting hold of the silverware. Had it just been them, John would have taken a picture of the faintly uncomfortable, stoic look Sherlock wore while Aaron squirmed in his arms, pushing himself up on tiny legs to plant a palm smack on Sherlock's face.

The washing up Angela had roped Sherlock into would probably keep the brothers from clashing before the children went to bed; John nonetheless kept a sharp ear open while reading Olivia her requisite bedtime story and tucking her up with a kiss and a cuddle.

He was surprised they'd waited for him – if this was Sherlock's business, he didn't play much of a role, and certainly had no say in making decisions that weren't medical. Sherlock typically went out of his way to protect John from being involved, and the quick flash of grey eyes his way when he entered the living room and accepted a drink from Mycroft told him that his partner definitely wanted to keep it that way now.

 _Well,_ he thought. _Nothing for it. I'm here, aren't I?_

"So, what's all this about then?" he asked. Sherlock and Mycroft met each other's gaze, both of them sighing softly, and John couldn't resist a grin, seeing a similar smile twitch on Irene's lips as she adjusted her hold on her sleeping son.

"Denied you all that dancing around, haven't I?" John asked, grin stretching when Sherlock gave him a slow, pointed look.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," his partner drawled.

"Must be my mistake," John replied. "Of course neither of you would sidle around whatever it is, trading posh insults and snobbish snide comments until you finally wound your way to the point."

"I can say with full confidence that I've never 'sidled' anywhere in my life," Mycroft sniffed, disdain for the word dripping in his voice.

"Well, that's certainly true," Sherlock muttered against the rim of his glass.

"You on the other hand…" Mycroft murmured.

"Why bother when you've got people to do it for you?" Sherlock countered.

"Christ, I should have known you'd both find a way to do this anyhow," John sighed. "Mycroft, get to it. Why are we here?"

"Must there be some ulterior motive in having a pleasant family dinner?" Mycroft enquired, all feigned innocence that made John roll his eyes. That, he decided, had to be genetic, because Sherlock looked exactly the same when he tried it.

"Should I point out that, strictly speaking, Irene isn't family?" John asked.

"I would imagine my brother contends his top employees _are_ like family," Mycroft replied. John cast a look at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows in a sort of facial shrug, giving a faint nod.

"Fine," John conceded, taking a seat next to his partner, resisting the urge to cover one of Sherlock's knees possessively. His actions would be read loud and clear by everyone – and, he noted, Angela was sitting across from her husband, not beside him. It struck John less as a statement of disagreement and more as strategy to divide and conquer.

"But," he said, "we all know that's bollocks–"

"Language," Sherlock murmured.

"He's three months old, and sleeping," Irene replied. "It's not going to make an impression."

" _If_ this were a nice family dinner, we'd both have known Irene was coming," John continued, pinning Mycroft with his best captain's glare. It seemed to slide right by. Pity. It worked so well on Sherlock.

"How so?"

"Because she would have told Sherlock if she was coming to London. Or, if not him, then me."

"You're very confident in her reactions," Mycroft commented.

"I am, aren't I? And you're bloody well doing it again. Mycroft. Why are we here?"

"Very well," Mycroft sighed, putting his drink aside, fingertips lingering against the rim of the glass. "If you insist."

"I think you'll find he's very good at that," Sherlock murmured. John resisted throwing a glare Sherlock's way, keeping his gaze fixed on Mycroft so as not to let his brother-in-law weasel his way out of the question.

"We have a… problem," Mycroft said, slowly.

"Only one?" Sherlock asked. "That must be a nice change of pace for you." This time, John did shoot him a warning glare, which was – unsurprisingly – ignored. He half wondered if the brothers kept a running tally of points and would declare a victor at the end of their lives.

He frankly wouldn't have put it past them.

"One that requires some… unconventional solutions."

"You mean hiring an international criminal organization to do your dirty work for you," Sherlock said, swirling his glass with what John knew was feigned indifference.

"I wouldn't have put it quite so bluntly," Mycroft snapped.

"No, you wouldn't," Sherlock murmured. John was about to interject again when Angela saved him by clearing her throat softly, and he felt a moment's envy that she could bring them both to heel – with faintly abashed expressions – so easily.

"Mycroft, you have a whole government at your disposal, and a rather large – if somewhat unwieldy – one. Including your wife, whom, I might add, has significant skills in dealing with problematic people."

"I never said this was a person," Mycroft pointed out.

"If it's you, it's political, and if it's political, it's a person. You don't need me to sort it out."

"Your firm, Sherlock. And, as a matter of fact, we do. This needs to be dealt with discreetly. Without any ties back to the government."

" _I_ tie back to the government," Sherlock said. "Through you."

"If that were true, we'd all be in prison," Mycroft replied.

"What do you want me to do, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped. "Secure this person an expensive island property? Or commercial real estate in the City? Some gaudy modern mansion, perhaps?"

"I believe he already has all the real estate he requires," Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, this is serious."

"Yes, Mycroft, you always think it is."

John cast a glance at Angela, who raised an eyebrow in return but shifted slightly in her seat, the movement catching her husband's attention.

"He's a very prominent figure. Well connected. A lot of people owe him."

"Owe him what?"

"Favours," Mycroft said with a slight shrug. "Money. Loyalty. Information. Whatever he can command. Whatever he wants."

"How do you know I don't?"

"Because you're more careful than most," Mycroft said and John arched an eyebrow, wondering what it cost Sherlock's brother to admit that.

"As are you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Indeed. Unfortunately, my rather large and unwieldy government contains many people who aren't. Your – _enterprise_ , on the other hand… There is something to be said about being in business for yourself, I suppose. Your people are remarkably adept at maintaining a healthy distance between your company and the law."

"Ah, the police," Sherlock said, sitting back against the couch cushions. "You should have said."

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft sighed. " _That_ would be easy, as they do fall under the purview of the government. Someone with similar reach and influence, but without those pesky dictates such as procedures and rules."

"Get to the point, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I haven't got all evening."

"I rather think you do," his brother demurred, but shook his head and held up a hand when Sherlock drew a breath for a retort. "Yes, yes, all right. Sherlock, you must understand, this is a matter of extreme delicacy."

"It won't be a matter of anything without a _name_ , Mycroft."

"Very well." Mycroft paused, pursing his lips. "Charles Augustus Magnussen."

It meant nothing to John, but the sharp reaction from his partner was evidence that it meant something to Sherlock. He glanced at Irene, seeing mild shock reflected on her features, and pressed his lips together against a question when she gave a small shake of her head.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock–"

"No, Mycroft!" Sherlock spat, pushing himself to his feet. "This isn't negotiable! How dare you? How dare you bring _my_ people here and put _my_ business at risk – _and_ John! You dare bring my personal life into _this_? Do you have _any_ idea the lengths to which I've gone– No. John, we're leaving."

"What?" John asked.

"Sherlock–" Mycroft tried again.

"You ambush me like this?" Sherlock snarled. "No, Mycroft! Come on, John. Now!"

Baffled, John managed to put his drink aside and stood, casting a questioning glance at Irene, whose expression told him she had no more answers than he did.

"We think he has access to–" Mycroft began.

"I don't want to know!" Sherlock said, long legs carrying him from the room, John hurrying to keep up, aware that Mycroft was behind them. "Don't try, Mycroft, because I am _not_ listening!"

"Surely you must see–"

"What I see is me being manipulated into putting my entire business – my entire _life_ – at risk – and you having the gall to drag John into it!"

"He does work for you," Mycroft pointed out, arching an eyebrow coolly.

"As a physician, not as a business associate," Sherlock snapped. "Whatever you've done to garner _his_ attention, keep me out of it! I am _not_ being pulled down with you, Mycroft!"

"The situation is not what you're thinking–"

"I'm not thinking anything because I'm not listening," Sherlock said, pulling the door open and shuffling a bewildered John out in front of him. "Good _night_ , Mycroft." John heard the faint intake of breath behind him but Sherlock cut his brother off, snapping the door shut, one hand on John's back propelling him toward the lift.

"Sherlock, what–" John tried, the hand on his upper back pushing him relentlessly forward.

"Not here," Sherlock replied, voice as clipped as the curt shake of his head.

"But–"

" _Not_ _here_ , John," his partner said, jostling them both into the lift, the smooth slide of the doors and the quiet gleam of polished wood at odds with John's confusion and the thunder in his partner's expression.

He waited until they got to the car, but even here he was hushed, Sherlock casting a warning glare at the dark panel of glass that made John start. Never in all the time he'd known his partner had Sherlock ever even hinted at doubting Gerald's loyalty.

"You have to tell me what's going on," John murmured, keeping his voice low, a tone that could sound like anything if it was picked up from the front of the car.

"When we get home," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock–"

"When we get home, John," Sherlock repeated, voice still quiet, but underlain by cold iron.

"No one's going to hear us in here," John pointed out.

" _His_ is not a name spoken lightly," Sherlock replied. "And not one I'd like even accidentally overheard coming from my lips. When we're at home, John, and safe. Not before."


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock–"

"No."

John fought down a snarl, tired of that word, the way it shut down all conversation – shut down Sherlock. Grey eyes met his, briefly, flashing defiance, and the set of his partner's jaw told him Sherlock wasn't waiting to be coaxed, wasn't about to give in.

He put himself between Sherlock and the balcony, blocking the door and setting his weight the way the army had trained him to. Sherlock _could_ get past John if he really wanted, but the doctor wasn't letting this go without a fight any more than his partner was.

They had access to the balcony through the bedroom as well as the living room, but John's position meant he could be out and blocking that more quickly than Sherlock could reach it. The flicker of expression told him Sherlock had just done the mental calculation and had reached the same conclusion – thunder followed the shock in his expression, and John took a deep, steadying breath.

Pissing Sherlock off was never high on his list of priorities, and three years had more than taught him that his partner had any number of tools in his emotional arsenal. Retaliation wasn't pretty, especially coming at him Sherlock Holmes style, but right now, John didn't care.

"You need to bloody well tell me what's going on!" he snapped, keeping himself ready – not tense, exactly, but aware. Alert. Watching Sherlock's expression like a hawk, reading it like the expert he had become.

The danger there wasn't directed at him – and John wouldn't have traded places with Mycroft over the next few days for anything – but it could be redirected.

 _So be it_ , he thought. He'd faced worse, even if it wasn't from Sherlock Holmes.

What he hadn't expected was for Sherlock to put the cigarette he'd been holding to his lips and light up in the living room.

"You know the rules!" John snapped as Sherlock inhaled sharply, a puff of smoke obscuring the air between them momentarily.

"And you know my rules!" Sherlock retorted. "This isn't anything to do with you, John!"

"You can't just–"

"No, _you_ cannot keep arguing with me about it, John! You _can't_ know about this!"

"You said you'd tell me!"

"I lied!" Sherlock snarled, the cigarette pressing between his lips again, the trail of ash teetering dangerously. John was aware that it would stain the pale carpet and also aware of how utterly pointless that was in the face of whatever it was Sherlock was refusing to tell him.

"You don't get to do that!" John snapped.

"I lie all the time, John! I'm a _criminal_ for god's sake! You bloody well know that!"

"Yes, yes, I do, and that's what's got us into this mess – whatever this mess is!"

"And once again, you know my rules! This is my business, John! _I_ decide what you need to know about it!"

"Usually! But Mycroft dragged me into this– no, shut up! Whether you like it or not and what would you like, Sherlock? For me to be caught unawares walking up the street by this Magnussen person?"

Sherlock hissed at him, making a sharp gesture with the hand that held his rapidly disintegrating cigarette, ash falling gently, like snow.

"What?" John demanded.

"It's best if you avoid his name," his partner muttered and John drew back a bit, surprise relaxing the tension. He caught himself the moment before Sherlock could take advantage of the situation, and the displeasure that flickered over his partner's features told him Sherlock would have, if only to make a point.

"So, what, he's Voldemort then?" John asked.

The look Sherlock gave him was long and slow, that unreadable, penetrating grey eyed stare that still made John feel like he was a five year old caught nicking sweets. He held himself against it, shifting even more into army mode, returning it with his best captain's glower, hoping like hell the jump of his pulse in his neck wasn't giving him away.

Sherlock broke first, eyes skittering away, and John exhaled slowly. He should be used to it by now, and he _knew_ that he was being taken apart by his partner's gaze because Sherlock had no idea what the hell John was talking about.

It didn't lessen the intensity, nor how little John liked being subjected to it without any more pleasurable intent behind it.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sure you don't," John agreed, and another glare was shot his way. "That doesn't mean you don't get to tell me what the bloody hell is going on."

John waited out the pause – three years had made him the world expert in how Sherlock communicated, but hadn't made his partner much better at dealing with messy personal issues.

"Would you believe that it would be better for you simply not to know?" Sherlock asked, not quite managing to meet John's eyes as he took a final drag on his cigarette. John kept quiet as his partner cast about for somewhere to extinguish it, and made no comment when Sherlock ground the butt into a coaster.

It would bother Sherlock more than him, and he wasn't about to give his partner any chance to derail the conversation again.

"I'd believe you think so, yeah," John agreed.

"You need to trust my judgment," Sherlock replied tersely.

"I do," John snapped. "But you need to trust mine. I'm happy to let you run about and do all the thieving you want," he ignored the slight flare of nostrils, the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "but I'm not going to fall to pieces just because you give me a little bit of information! As much as you don't like it – and I bloody well know you don't – Mycroft _did_ drag me into this, and what would you prefer? That this Magnussen catches me unawares – or worse, that I somehow compromise you because you kept me in the dark?"

It was a bit of a low blow and John knew it, read it in the faint wince on his partner's features. He'd learned a thing or two about emotional manipulation in the last three years, and Sherlock did – occasionally – deserve a taste of his own medicine.

John didn't like it much, but liked the alternative even less.

"He's a blackmailer."

"Sorry?" That hadn't even made it onto the mental list he'd drawn up in the car – assassin, drug lord, shadowy double agent, rogue secret agent, arms dealer, overly ambitious Interpol or Met detective, all of those had crossed his mind.

"A blackmailer," Sherlock repeated. "As in, he coerces payment from his victims in exchange for not revealing delicate information."

"I know what it means!" John shot back. "I just–" He cut himself off, realization dawning. "Is _that_ why Irene was there?"

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Does she know him?"

"I should hope Irene's proven to have much better taste than that," Sherlock replied, a hint of iciness slipping into his voice that John ignored.

"Sherlock, for god's sake, she does the same damn thing! So do you, when it comes to it! Why are you so worried about someone who uses the same tactics you do?"

Sherlock's stare was a storm chasing across the sky, anger towed in the wake of shock, but John cut him off before he even had a chance to inhale.

"Yes! Yes you do, Sherlock! So does she! For god's sake, I'm not a complete idiot, you know! It's been three years and I'm your bloody physician! I _do_ know what you do!"

"Then you should know what we buy is _silence_ , John!" Sherlock hissed.

"Isn't that what all blackmailers do, Sherlock?"

"No, what they _sell_ is silence! Silence at an ever increasing price, without any hope of respite because if you stop paying, that silence is broken. And in Magnussen's case, it isn't just broken, isn't just made public, but shouted at you from the front of every newspaper, from every news report, from every credible online source, because _that's_ what he does, John. He _owns_ the news, and it's not silence he wants, it's the story. _I_ want silence. _Irene_ wants silence. _That_ is our business – secrets, lies, stolen things. Magnussen wants noise, John, and the louder, the better."

Sherlock stopped abruptly, expression affronted, as if John had made him say too much. The doctor shook his head, giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts.

"What has he got on you?" he asked.

"You assume he has something?" Sherlock snapped.

"Does he?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared as he drew himself to his full height, and John shifted, making his stance even more military. The moment before his partner took the hint was taut, both of them silently braced for a stand off, but Sherlock relented, relaxing enough for John to ease his guard down.

"Not as far as I know."

"You don't know for sure?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed, eyes falling closed briefly.

"If we're going to have this miserable conversation, we could at least have it with whiskey," he muttered.

Good whiskey, of course, and an open pack of cigarettes on the coffee table between them, the ashtray rescued from its habitual place on the balcony. John wasn't thrilled with this deliberate flouting of the rules they'd agreed upon – Sherlock hadn't been inclined to smoke much inside even when the flat had been solely his – but the doctor knew there'd be no discussion outside. If Sherlock was going to talk, he was going to smoke.

"You don't have someone inside his organization," John said. It was half a question, and Sherlock shook his head, flicking ash into the tray, the acrid smell of nicotine hanging in the air.

"Why not?"

"Because as extensive as my network is, John, I cannot have people everywhere, and there are some risks that are not worth the potential reward."

"It seems to me this one would be," John retorted. "If he has _anything_ on you–"

"It could be disastrous, yes," Sherlock said. "Particularly given my link to the British government."

"Not to mention organized crime!"

"And that," Sherlock agreed with what John felt was far too casual a tone.

"What if he's using Mycroft to get to you?" John demanded.

"He's not," Sherlock assured him. "If he were, Mycroft would have told me and me alone."

"You're so sure about that?"

"About Mycroft not wanting to admit weakness in front of anyone? Yes. This may tangentially relate to him, John, but as I said, he has the whole of the British government at his disposal. Think of all the secrets. Secrets upon secrets, and far more interesting than any of mine."

"More interesting than an international crime syndicate?"

"I'm not a figure of public trust," Sherlock said with a slight shrug. "I sell extraordinarily expensive real estate to extraordinarily wealthy clients. Oh it would be a story if I were arrested, yes, but not that interesting of one. Not in the greater scheme of things."

"So, what? You're just going to sit back and let him do whatever it is he wants to do to Mycroft?"

"You think my brother is helpless?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. "Asking me was a means of taking the work away from him. Simplifies his life while complicating mine."

"No, I don't buy it," John said, army stubbornness welling up. "You don't give in this easily, Sherlock. You went up against Jim Moriarty, so why not Magnussen?"

"Jim Moriarty was a threat to me," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing in a warning that John ignored. "And I have no idea where he's gone or why – not that I'm arguing his silence."

 _That_ , John thought, _is bullshit_. He'd never say it, mostly because Sherlock would continue to deny it, but Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't know exactly where Moriarty was and what he was doing.

It had been three years, with no sign of him returning to spread his gleeful madness – John was sure Sherlock had something to do with that, and had often wondered, darkly, exactly how far someone would have to go to keep Jim Moriarty under control.

"Nor am I giving in," his partner commented, taking long drag on his cigarette. John pursed his lips, withholding an observation about this being more about Mycroft than Magnussen – that might be right, but Sherlock's reaction at his brother's flat proved it wasn't only that.

It made him want to push the issue, that stubborn streak inside of him flaring up again. If Magnussen was so dangerous, Sherlock should relish the chance to go after him. It was what he lived for, that treacherous, precipitous game, toying with the limits of the law, skirting its edges without ever being seen.

"It's my name in five foot high letters across New Scotland Yard," Sherlock said, as though reading his mind, "only everywhere else, too. I'm not a stupid man, John." He smiled slightly, obviously gratified by John's quiet snort. "I play where I can win."

"Who says you can't win against this Magnussen?" John asked.

"No one," Sherlock replied, absently grinding out his cigarette. "But at what cost?"

"So you'll just let him get away with whatever it is he's doing?"

" _I_ won't let him do anything," Sherlock snapped. "Mycroft _will_ take care of it. It's what he does." He paused, a distant scowl crossing his face. In some ways, Sherlock was an open book – or had become so, to John – and that particular distaste was reserved for Mycroft blindsiding him, rather than going through Gabriel.

Bad enough Irene had been invited without Sherlock's knowledge, John supposed. A two week holiday had dwindled to two days now, and it only surprised John that Mycroft hadn't pounced as soon as Gabriel and Sandra had left for New York.

Or maybe he hadn't known then. Maybe this had just come up, or been clear enough for him to make sense of it.

"As far as we know, he hasn't done anything," Sherlock pointed out, and John withheld a sigh. All the time in the world wouldn't get him used to the way Sherlock could that, answer the thoughts he was sure he hadn't even let show on his face. "If it's illegal, the police will be involved."

"That'll be messy. You know it will. Especially as he owns all those news outlets."

"Trial by tabloid is always messy, John. But better him than me, and if the government is involved, I don't want to be."

"So that's it, then? You're not even going to consider it?"

The thunder was back in his partner's face, muted but still there, a silent warning to drop it now while he was ahead.

"I did," Sherlock said curtly. "And I've made my decision, John. This is my business, and you have no role in how I choose to pursue it. No," he snapped when John opened his mouth to interject, "this isn't up for debate."

With a smooth movement, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, glass clanking gently against the coaster when he set it down.

"You can stay out here and stew about it if you want, but I'm done with the subject, and I'm going to bed. Good night."

* * *

"Get up."

The flare of light hit him the moment before John's voice broke the silence, and Sherlock had to bite down on a groan, covering his eyes with a hand. The sudden glare abated to tolerable levels, but it did nothing for the sensation of being so abruptly disturbed – a muddled glance at the clock told him he'd been in bed for less than an hour.

As a doctor, Sherlock felt John should have known better than to wake him at such an inappropriate time in his sleep cycle.

Not to mention how much John harped on his sleeping habits, as if his need for less sleep could be altered by rational discussion.

"Get up."

The order came again, a sharp captain's command that left no room for disobeying – but Sherlock found some anyway, dragging a pillow over his head.

"Sherlock. Get up."

"John," Sherlock sighed, dislodging the pillow reluctantly, meeting his partner's set expression. The taut lines of muscles across John's shoulders and down his arms spoke to a stubborn refusal to be dismissed, and Sherlock hardly thought it was fair for John to ambush him shirtless.

He knew his own weaknesses, and John was at the very top of that list.

"We're not talking about this anymore," Sherlock said.

"Nope," John agreed, pulling the covers down; Sherlock reached instinctively for them, chill air brushing over his skin.

"I realize you–"

"I just agreed we're not talking about it," John interrupted. "Now get up."

"If you rang Mycroft–"

"Jesus, you're stubborn," John sighed, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Says the man who insists I sleep and then wakes me up all hours?"

"Bollocks, you weren't asleep and we both know it."

Sherlock withheld a small sigh; that was actually true. He rarely took refuge in sleep – or pretending to sleep – but it was often an effective weapon with John, when he needed one.

"Let's go," John said, and Sherlock swallowed a retort that they were unlikely to be going anywhere, half clad as they were. John, with remarkable insight, shucked his trousers and pants, padding naked into the bathroom, not even pausing to see if Sherlock would follow.

He did, of course. John's voice had brooked no argument, and he despised fighting with John whatever the reason. The doctor's irritation was understandable. So was the helplessness John would never admit to.

Here was a fight that the soldier in him could not win.

It irked Sherlock, too, but less so. He had always picked his battles carefully. It was the reason he was here, free and unencumbered in his own home, rather than living as a permanent, uncomfortable guest of the Crown.

"Take those off," John ordered, nodding once, briefly, at the silk pyjama bottoms Sherlock was still wearing. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but John only folded his arms over his chest – somehow, naked, John could still manage that disarming military authority.

He moved slowly, aware that it annoyed his partner, taking the precious seconds to try and work out what John wanted. It was moments like this – grating moments – when he couldn't read John nearly as well as he'd like. When his own proclivity for obfuscation was reflected back at him, leaving Sherlock scrambling to understand what was normally so clear.

He felt himself tensing for a fight – not a verbal one, but against giving up all dominance to John, who was so good at taking it when it suited him.

It galled him, but Sherlock wasn't sure he was in the mood for sex.

"In," John said curtly, nodding at the sauna. Sherlock bit his lip against an argument, the cold tile giving way to warm cedar against the soles of his feet, the heat slapping him like a shock, making him adjust a moment before he could breathe properly.

"Sit," John ordered.

"John–"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"I'm not going to–" He cut himself off with a groan when surgeon's fingers dug into his trapezius muscles, thumbs pressing against his spine, running upward. The defensive resistance evaporated, leaving him immediately on rubbery legs as John's fingers worked into tense muscles.

"Now will you sit?" his partner asked, a hint of wry humour in his voice.

He did better than that, sprawling on his stomach on one of the generous benches, acutely aware of the extra body heat when John settled on his lower back. Sherlock pillowed his head on his arms, trying – unsuccessfully – to contain the groans and whimpers that slipped past his lips as John assailed knots and sensitive spots. There was no mercy here, and Sherlock knew better than to ask for it; the euphoric feeling that followed the discomfort was reward enough.

It was rare that John was so demanding in his massages, but Sherlock had learned, quickly enough, that the doctor was a genius at identifying when it was needed. The irritation of the evening – everything from Mycroft surprising him with Irene's presence to the unwanted reason behind the dinner to the argument he'd had with his partner – drained away under John's experienced hands.

By the time the doctor was done, Sherlock felt reduced to rubber – warm, satisfied, drifting somewhere in that hazy pink place between wakefulness and sleep.

They couldn't sleep here, not really, certainly not all night, but he trusted John to rouse them before it became dangerous.

The sound of his partner shifting, lying down on the bench just above him, was accompanied by the trail of fingertips up and down his spine, the touch drawing up goose bumps in its wake.

"I do, you know," John murmured.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked in reply, aware that his voice was deep, slurred, but hardly bothered to care.

"Trust you."

He hummed in reply, too sated to form the words to answer. It wouldn't be the last he heard about it, because Mycroft would be on his case and Irene would undoubtedly have something to say about it, but it was John who really mattered, and John who would let it go, trust his judgment, his ability to make the choices that kept them safe.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock awoke the next morning to an otherwise empty bed, but without the oppressive atmosphere that suggested John was still annoyed with him. Whatever irritation the doctor had felt had worked itself out with all of the knots in Sherlock's muscles; he barely managed to repress a groan as he pushed himself gingerly to standing. John's intense massages always left him feeling like putty the next day.

He fumbled for his pyjama bottoms and slipped a dressing gown over his shoulders, the cool silk smoothing away lingering twinges and aches. He didn't need to check to see the faint bruises dotting the length of his spine. John would feel slightly guilty about them – he always did, as if it were somehow his fault that Sherlock bruised so readily.

He padded into the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of coffee, and did manage to close his lips on a groan this time at the sight of defined muscles in his calves flexing as John pulled down two coffee mugs that were resting just outside of his comfortable reach. The suggestion of black briefs vanished just below the hem of one of Sherlock's shirts – if he'd had any doubt that his partner was no longer annoyed, it would have been banished immediately.

John only wore Sherlock's shirts to drive him mad, and never did so when he was in the least bit upset.

"'Morning," John said casually, casting a smile over his shoulder as if didn't have the faintest clue what he was doing. Sherlock forewent a greeting in return, crossing the kitchen in a stride and a half, pausing only long enough to scoop up the lube John had pointedly left on the small island.

He caught John's grunt in his mouth when he spun the doctor around, pinning him against the counter. Sherlock dug his fingers into dense thigh muscles, gripping hard and lifting, helped by his partner's hands planted on the counter's surface. He fumbled on the buttons of the shirt John was wearing, then abandoned that in favour of dispensing with the black briefs. They were kicked aside as surgeon's fingers hooked into the elastic waist of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, sending the silk to puddle around his ankles.

"Christ," Sherlock managed, feeling John's grin against his lips when he was pulled into another hard kiss. The shirt and the lube weren't the only preparation John had done – Sherlock was dimly grateful, aware he wasn't going to last as long as he'd like as it was.

The smell of coffee and John surrounded him, accompanied by his partner's moans and his own harsh breathing as the edges of his vision darkened. Fingers tightened on the back of his neck, catching fine hairs as fingernails cut into the skin, and John came with a small, shivering gasp. Sherlock tilted his head back, biting his lower lip as John's lips pressed into his neck, the shock shuddering through him.

It took a moment before he could suck in a deep breath, euphoria coursing through his muscles, relaxing them even more than they had been the night before. The smell of John was even stronger now, and Sherlock wondered, vaguely, why he was bothering to resist the urge to lift his partner bodily, carry him to bed and stay there all day.

"You have work," John said when Sherlock murmured something about this appealing plan.

"I'm the boss," Sherlock pointed out.

"I have work, too."

"Your boss is on holiday. He won't know the difference."

"My patients will. And you know Irene will want to see you."

With a sigh, Sherlock conceded, nuzzling John's short hair, catching a whiff of shampoo.

"Besides, tomorrow's Saturday. I don't have any patients and, like you said, you're the boss. You can take the weekend off."

"I might have important clients," Sherlock sniffed.

"Nope," John replied as Sherlock trailed a hand down the outside of John's thigh, thumb turning light circles. "You'll have to tell them you're working from home, because we've got plans."

* * *

In true fashion, Irene was not waiting for Sherlock when he arrived at the office, but swept it the moment before he'd had the chance to truly get settled. It might have been her stage training, but Sherlock suspected darkly that she did this on purpose. With everyone.

As her employer, he should have been exempt to this sort of nonsense, but commenting on it would only bring a raised eyebrow and absolutely no contrition whatsoever.

Aaron was deposited with Tina, who took him with delight, and Sherlock swallowed the compulsion to point out this wasn't part of her duties. As with everything, it would have no effect on Irene, and could too easily be construed as a criticism of his assistant's work. Tina would do her job, three month old infant or no, and Sherlock had no cause to question that.

Coffee and tea were delivered efficiently, the faint click of his office door leaving them in silence. Irene claimed the sofa for herself, settling in without hesitation. _How little things change_ , he mused – her capacity to command any space as her own certainly hadn't, and was assured now as it had been the first time she'd strode into his office with the promise that he'd lose his business if he continued interfering with hers.

Whether the dominance came from her profession or vice versa, Sherlock could never quite tell.

"Well?" he asked, refusing to relinquish his place behind his desk, playing idly with a pen as he sipped his coffee.

"You assume I stayed?" Irene enquired, lifting an eyebrow.

"No," Sherlock replied, catching only the faint flicker of surprise that was expertly masked behind a neutral expression. "Making assumptions is a lazy form of guessing. I _know_ you stayed. I also know you did what I pay you significant sums of money to do."

A smile crossed her lips, nowhere as fleeting as the surprise had been.

"He was quite upset, you know."

"He's always upset when he doesn't get his way," Sherlock sighed, the pen between his fingers tapping gently against the polished surface of his desk.

"And we're speaking of Mycroft, are we?" Irene murmured, the glare Sherlock shot her sliding right by. "Besides," she continued, setting her tea cup aside with a smooth movement, "you've already declined to pursue it. Why does it matter now?"

"All information is valuable," Sherlock snapped. "Especially against my brother."

"There's little of that to go around as it is," Irene said. "Our man of the hour has something sensitive regarding members of the highest level of government."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, chair sliding backwards as he pushed himself to his feet. " _What_ does he have?"

Irene shrugged, unperturbed.

"I suspect if your brother knew that, he wouldn't be trying to hire you to find out."

"A vague accusation that someone has accessed secrets at the highest levels of the British government? _Which_ highest levels? Mycroft _is_ the highest levels!"

"Among others," Irene agreed. "And it's not just 'someone' accessing the information."

An irritated sigh gusted from Sherlock's lips.

"Does he think we're errand boys–"

"People," Irene murmured, earning a scowl but a cut nod.

"To go chasing after phantom wisps of information for him?"

"Sherlock," she said, leaning forward, forearms resting lightly on her knees. "This is what we do. Solve problems."

"So does MI5! And six! And a host of other shadowy organizations Mycroft relies on at a moment's notice! And don't you dare point out to me that they may have a vested interest in not seeing this pursued any further. So do I."

"Your interest is different," she replied. "This doesn't involve you. So far as we know."

"So far as we know," Sherlock muttered in agreement, stalking around his desk to throw his long frame onto the sofa across from her. "Therein lies the problem."

"I see none," Irene said smoothly. "You've said no. He can hardly go over your head."

"Oh yes he could."

"Your mother notwithstanding," Irene replied, an eyebrow twitching upward. "This is still your business."

"And my decision stands," he snapped. "Whatever Mycroft suspects, this is nothing to do with us." Her silence drew another glare. "Is that understood?"

"Of course," Irene said.

"Irene," he warned. "We are staying out of this. All of us."

"Dublin keeps me occupied, Sherlock. Not to mention having an infant son. You needn't worry about me." Her lips twitched at the derisive snort Sherlock didn't even bother trying to repress. Obedience had never been her strong suit – and he'd known that full well when he hired her.

It made her a valuable asset, but there was a time and a place where initiative needed to be curbed.

"See to it that I don't," he said.

* * *

The hours inched by, underlain by a silence unremarked by anyone else – one Sherlock suspected only he could hear, which made its presence even more intolerable. It was an itch below the surface of his skin where he couldn't reach, or an elusive shadow of a sound vanishing when he cocked his head, trying to find it.

He kept a snarl to himself, letting it out as short, sharp huff instead, surrounded by the silence of his office. His hand had reached for his mobile more than once of his own accord; each time, he snatched it back, determined not to lose another moment's focus.

A cigarette on the small, private balcony he'd commandeered years ago precisely for this purpose helped, but only until he had to pass by Gabriel's office again. The empty room offended him – it wasn't even dark, as would be right and proper, because Gabriel's assistant, Michael, was in and out, adding tasks Gabriel would see to next week, or fetching information for others who needed it.

Sherlock managed a curt reply at Michael's offer to help him with whatever he needed, and stalked into the desperate privacy of his own office, fingers plucking his phone from a jacket pocket. He cursed himself, intending to put it back and forget this nonsense, but an irritatingly stubborn streak kept him from doing so.

He was, as he'd told John that morning, the boss. Clients – both legitimate and otherwise – were always kept happy; better for them to owe him than the other way around, and he'd cultivated a reputation for reliability. There was always _someone_ to handle the necessary details even when he couldn't (or didn't want to), but there were clients who needed the right sort of attention. That of someone important, someone with influence.

It was simple enough to load those off onto Gabriel when the younger man was here, but an ocean away and on _holiday_ (the word made Sherlock sneer) severed him effectively from any responsibility.

Sherlock had, after all, _promised_.

He could handle another day – he _could_ – if it weren't for the unbalanced sensation creeping up along his spine. The one he could not entirely dispel, no matter how much he focused on his work, no matter the minutes he put aside for meditative breathing, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked.

It was physical, a craving. _Distraction_. Sherlock knew it for what it was, but naming it hardly mattered.

He needed, at very least, to talk this over with Gabriel. Someone he could trust with the specifics, the details – no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Someone with an interest vested only in him. Not in his brother by way of association with Angela. Not someone who might, with the right provocation, be inclined to learn whatever it was that Magnussen didn't want them to know.

 _You mean yourself?_ John's voice sounded in his head and Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath against the impotent frustration.

 _Shut up_ , he thought. He was well out of it. They all were, and curiosity had no place here, even for him.

He couldn't talk to Gabriel – no phone line would be secure enough for this topic of conversation, and it was a band-aid solution regardless. He knew himself well enough to recognize it, even if the knowledge was unwanted.

He needed _John_.

He needed to get out of this blasted building, track the doctor down in his office, cancel the rest of the day's appointments, and let John break him down utterly and thoroughly. He needed it like he'd have needed cocaine had he let himself slide into that addiction years ago. He felt it like a scream of fire along his nerves, that itch below the surface grown into a full-blown ache, and even the bite of his manicured fingernails against the palms of his hands did nothing to lessen the intensity.

Sherlock leaned against the closed door to his office, head tipped back, eyes screwed shut as he breathed slowly, waiting for the sensation to wane.

He needed it, and knew full well he couldn't have it, because seeking John out now would only sound alarm bells in his partner's mind – especially after the disastrous dinner last night – and there would be demands for explanations. What he wanted wouldn't be given up until John had wormed enough information out of him.

And if Sherlock waited – if he could _make_ himself wait – John would be happily obliging tonight without wondering why Sherlock was deliberately disrupting his own schedule.

With effort born of long practice, he found a calm centre, letting it expand until the sensation was bearable, if not gone altogether. Still, the edges of his mind buzzed, echoed by the tingling in the tips of his fingers. He paced the length of his office and back; it made little difference once he stopped moving.

He needed Gabriel to talk to or John to stop him talking altogether – but neither were available now.

There was someone, though.

In the whole of London – in the whole of the world – there was one person always at his beck and call, always where Sherlock expected him to be, always waiting to see him.

In the silence of his office, the faint, cold smile that touched his lips went unremarked.

"Hold all my calls," he said, stepping out, catching the flash of surprise across Tina's expression. "I have a meeting."

"Should I have Gerald bring the car?" she asked.

"No need," Sherlock replied, stepping into the lift as it opened smoothly for him. "I'm not going far."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been remiss in thanking AGirloftheSouth for her excellent betaing and her assistance, so: thank you!

Too close too much space, all the words fleeing because they couldn't be contained, no, not by cold metal shaped into bars, but by thick walls, yes – but there were cracks, little cracks that sound could creep through, a soft susurrus seeping out, slipping away so that he could not reach it and hold on and keep it tight, locked up, secret, always secret, even here where it was all secrets, where _he_ was the secret in a quiet place, all hidden away like the bits and pieces that weren't allowed out, no–

Little pinpricks of warm, solidness on his skin – _breathe_ , yes yes, breathe, he could do that while nodding, and there were eyes in front of him, so close to his own but pale, like the sea, like ice in winter, like an empty sky but they weren't empty, with dark pupils and focus – _he_ was supposed to focus, yes, and breathe, could he do both at the same time?

 _Sherlock_ –

Of course Sherlock who else – there were others but only with Sherlock and now there weren't others, only Sherlock who had pale eyes that weren't empty, watching him closely, so carefully, and he must be doing something wrong because he hadn't remembered to breathe – but if he breathed, the small sounds would slip away, would become words, would be heard, would be turned against him and _that_ , we couldn't have that, could we? Be careful, like treading on thin ice, wincing if the crack beneath your feet echoed across a space and sent someone running to plunge you in.

 _Jim_.

He knew that name – it was him, beneath all the masks he'd donned when he was someone else, all the other identities that could be removed like coats until he was left only with the one that fit and it was still who he was, even here in the darkness that wasn't always dark–

But other people knew the name, too, whispers in the darkness, tiny threads leading back to him and he was careful to control them all, a spider at the centre of a web catching all the flies – but there were other spiders, quiet and deadly – loud and deadly? – and he wouldn't say – he _wouldn't_ – not even to Sherlock, because if the thoughts slipped out here, who would hold them? They weren't like flies, they could slip down the web, slip off, fall anywhere, into the wrong hands, into the wrong mouth…

No, they wouldn't.

Because he wouldn't say – he didn't want to, lips pressed tight, but the words were there, hovering; he swallowed against them but they were too light, like air, lighter than air, and Sherlock wanted them, but he'd tell, _he_ would, and then bits of the web would be broken, others creeping across it, finding its centre, finding _him–_

_shh shh_

It wasn't a voice – there was only one voice here, no two, because he had one and Sherlock had one, but it was Sherlock's he could hear, carrying on the air, and he watched the walls suspiciously, waiting to see it leak out but it didn't, all the tiny cracks were sealed and it held Sherlock's voice in place and the small sound of the nail file, smooth strokes pulling him back with sensation until he focused on two sets of fingers, one moving, one not, the movements in time with the other voice in the room, steady, soft, undemanding–

But there was a demand, there was, and he knew it, and Sherlock knew it, and there were things he would _not_ say, not to anyone, because words had to go somewhere, and better stay locked up in his head where there would be no damage, not to him, not to her–

Everything was steady, steady, no change, Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's hands, but no, he _would not_ tell about the girl, he would not, not even to Sherlock because there was too much space between them and suddenly there wasn't, eyes like ice so close again and nowhere to pull back but it was space enough for the words that had to stay locked up–

And they would because where else would they go? Locked in his mind, locked in Sherlock's. Sherlock could scoop them up because there were only two here, in the darkness that wasn't always dark, with the scent of soap and water, of cologne – two kinds, one weaker, faded, put on earlier, one given to him now, and he could smell it like fresh air, like open skies and _no_ the skies would take the words and spread them, but there were no skies here, just the same walls repeated above and below so Sherlock could collect everything and keep it safe and _yes_ he could and he _would_ because he'd promised.

But promises were words and words were broken and could get free and he wouldn't, he _would not_ , not here, not anywhere and disappointment wasn't enough to coax him, pushing back against the guilt, avoiding saddened eyes and he knew it would all be taken away now, the soap, the razor, the suit, and he would be curled up in the corner alone in the darkness but he wouldn't anyway, he wouldn't, lips pressed together in a line, staring at the wall that was the floor beneath him, hands behind his back because that was where they went when Sherlock left–

But he wasn't alone, not yet, and nothing was taken away. The words hovered, tongue tasting them, wanting to turn them into real things, but he resisted, ignoring Sherlock's voice which had gone silent anyway, listening to nothing like the scrape of the razor, the brush of hot flannel. He could taste the disappointment too – Sherlock's, not his – but subtle, like a flavour he couldn't identify only really he could but it was all undercurrents and Sherlock kept his own voice quiet, kept his own words locked up where they couldn't get out and sneak away.

* * *

Even when Sherlock was gone he didn't speak it because alone wasn't always, it could be a lie, invisible ears listening where he couldn't see them, so he kept the words locked up tight, like him, the only place they would be safe.

Inside. Where it echoed, wouldn't stop, but couldn't escape, not if he didn't let it.

 _Magnussen_.

* * *

Sherlock sent Gerald home and walked – a habit he'd developed after his meetings with Jim, but one he made sure to vary occasionally. It never paid to assume no one was observing even the most innocuous of activities.

The fresh air and the city streets helped him parse the conversation into something approaching coherence. There had been a time, years ago, when talking to Jim had made sense, at least on the surface. Even then, there had been undercurrents beneath the undercurrents, so many veiled layers that nothing could be taken at face value.

Now it wasn't deliberate – not on Jim's part. Sherlock never told more truth than necessary, but Jim was no longer playing. Following the twisted, knotted strands of conversation took time now. Separating fact from fiction was one thing – separating fact from madness was quite another.

And Jim had been uncharacteristically close-lipped. It wasn't like him – now – to be so unforthcoming, not with the promise of some reward, and Sherlock's presence often counted as reward enough.

Nor with the threat of punishment, or at least punishment as Jim saw it. Taking away the few luxuries he was granted, the luxuries Sherlock had deliberately associated with himself and with cooperation.

He hadn't done it today, because as stubborn as Jim had been, Sherlock recognized the distinction between obstinacy and fear.

However much he wanted to deny it, Magnussen's name had sparked much the same response in him, and there were traces of his own reaction to Mycroft's request in Jim's to his. Not entirely the same, but Sherlock had no reason for unpredictability (although it was certainly tempting with his brother).

But there had been some information. The fear itself was a definite clue. As to what, Sherlock would have been left grasping for any hints if Jim hadn't let slip about the girl.

_What girl?_

The question had gone unanswered; Jim had shut down as securely as the cell that held him, refusing to say more, normally agile voice gone silent. Sherlock hadn't let the frustration surface. Dealing with Jim had always required unflappable equanimity, now more so than ever. A change in tone, a slight push too hard, and he would flee the only way he could, into the safety of his mind.

 _What girl?_ Sherlock asked himself now, eyes flickering over faces as they passed him by, assessing and discounting.

There were women he associated with Jim, but very few. Most of whom would be called women – the term "girl" was too familiar, too protective. He'd never known Jim to be protective about anyone but himself, and possibly Moran – although possessive might have been a better word there.

There was Molly Hooper, his contact at Bart's whom he had stolen from Jim. But she'd scarcely mattered to Jim at all, another pawn in his long reaching game, valuable only because of the access she provided. He doubted Jim would have even remembered her name, back when he could be relied upon to remember anyone's name aside from Sherlock's.

Beyond that… he came up empty every time.

He should leave it, he knew. He'd walked away from his brother's request for help with Magnussen, and walked right into this trap with Jim. _She_ (whoever she was) had to be associated with the news magnate – Jim had only mentioned her this one time, and only in connection with Magnussen.

Someone known to Magnussen then.

Or in danger of being so.

Like he was.

The jittery feeling crept up his neck again, and Sherlock resisted the impulse to turn, to scan the crowd for a face he'd never find anyway. Electronic eyes watched from all angles, and who knew who was watching behind them. His brother, certainly – or Mycroft could be, at a moment's notice.

But he wasn't the only one. A man who owned the media had to have eyes everywhere, and Sherlock felt them on him now, like insects, even if he was only imagining it. He'd done nothing to draw Magnussen's attention to him, but he knew full well that was meaningless. He was Mycroft's brother, he was worth his own fortune, he traded across the world with people worth even more than himself. All of those facts were true, the public face covering the private.

Sherlock had no illusions that a man like Magnussen had the resources to dig – although what he'd find would depend on Sherlock himself.

His tracks were covered. They always were. And they'd be covered again by the end of the weekend, current pathways cutting off into dead ends, new false trails leading nowhere productive.

He glanced at his watch, did a quick calculation. Gabriel and Sandra's return flight would leave in five hours, and would have them back by morning. Sherlock wondered if John would let him work – or, more precisely, if John would let him impose work on Gabriel. There were things they needed to do, the sooner the better, but getting to them without John knowing why would be tricky.

It always was.

It would be simpler, so much simpler, to tell John everything.

And so much more dangerous.

He wouldn't risk it. Not John. They'd already come too close too many times. There had been gaps he hadn't seen and John's safety had slipped through them.

He wasn't about to let it happen again.

He'd talk to Gabriel when he could, as soon as he could. There was nothing for it now – but knowing that didn't ease the impatient, edgy tension.

John could. Sherlock had been waiting all day for it. That perfect, agonizing distraction. When nothing else worked, John worked wonders.

Whomever Jim had spoken of could wait one night. Sherlock glanced at his watch again, reflexively, and picked up his pace for home.

* * *

John was home when Sherlock arrived, immersed in the small, boring chores that Sherlock disdained – there was a reason he had money, and he could so easily pay for everything to be taken care of, but John took some sort of pride in doing it himself. It meant fewer strangers in the flat, something that John appreciated, and that Sherlock often had occasion to, as well.

Like now.

He followed John around, pestering, needling, getting under his skin, nearly tasting the exasperation growing until John's patience snapped, dragging Sherlock down with it. The exquisite torture lasted ages, until Sherlock could feel nothing but the burn of pleasure down every nerve, see nothing but blackness, the bite of the cuffs on his wrists the only thing grounding him as his breath caught in his chest and his body screamed.

John's hard movements almost hurt, too much sensation after so much stimulation, but he wanted it, the near-pain keeping his mind from focusing on anything else as John's lips met his, clumsily, demanding, his muscles tensing as he came. Sherlock kissed back, swallowing John's low groan with one of his own as his partner collapsed, arms giving up his weight. He could feel the drumming of John's heart against his chest, pace matching his own, hot breath on his lips beginning to slow gradually.

A hand reached up, fumbling, and managed to undo the cuffs. Pins and needles danced up Sherlock's arms as his circulation returned to normal, heightening the rest of the euphoria. He kissed John again, more slowly this time.

"You have got to be bad for my health," John murmured in the small space between them.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, stretching languidly, squirming when John pinched his hip. "It's supposedly very good for your cardiovascular system."

"You know what they say about too much of a good thing…" John said, but there was a smile playing along the edges of his lips, around his eyes.

"They're lying," Sherlock replied, aware that his voice was thick, drowsing.

"They are," John agreed, and Sherlock wished vaguely that he had the energy to run a bath, to doze in the heat and the steam, but the bed was exceedingly comfortable – even more so with John curled around him, bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces. Lips lingered on his forehead, soft and warm, and Sherlock hummed, letting himself surrender, contentedly, to a comfortable, inviting oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

" _When I say run, run."_

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, the pale hues and familiar comforts of his bedroom contrasting sharply – disorientatingly – with the hammering of his heart and the sound of Irene's voice in his ear. He lay, paralyzed, torn between now and a moment years and miles away.

The imbalance faded slowly, his brain freeing him from that captive place between sleep and consciousness. His eyes flickered across the room – he was alone. Irene wasn't there ( _of course not, stupid_ ), but nor was John. Relief that his partner hadn't witnessed the nightmare warred with irritation that John wasn't curled up next to him, sleepy and pliable.

Sherlock eased himself to sitting, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and gave himself a long moment to collect his thoughts, to breathe against the adrenaline surge until the tension began to ease, his heart slowing to a more comfortable rate.

He wasn't one to remember his dreams and hated when he did, particularly when they were so jarring. The sensation of Irene right behind him, breath against his ear, made him shudder. It _had_ happened, but it wasn't real now, and he disliked that his mind and body were ganging up on him.

He pushed himself abruptly to his feet, stalking from the bedroom. He needed John, a coffee, and a cigarette. In that order. Faint sounds of a keyboard and the shuffling of paper from the living room meant his partner was there; the idea that John was working first thing on _their_ Saturday sparked a petulant irritation in Sherlock.

It scarcely mattered that he was intent on distracting John long enough to have at least a brief meeting with Gabriel – the doctor shouldn't be working when they had other plans.

He flopped onto the couch, bare feet propped on the edge of the coffee table, subjecting John to an angry glower.

"Sorry," his partner said, a sincere apology in his brown eyes. "I meant to be done by the time you got up."

"You've failed," Sherlock said. John gave him a humourless half smile, a warm hand squeezing Sherlock's ankle briefly.

"Sorry," he repeated.

"You do have an office," Sherlock said coolly.

"Says the man who would happily work in bed if I let him," John said, corners of his lips quirking again. Sherlock huffed but didn't deign to comment – and best if John didn't know that he _did_ work in bed occasionally, when his partner was fast asleep.

"Patient information is privileged. You should hardly be doing that here."

"You're complaining about me breaking a law?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"In our home," Sherlock replied.

"You've probably broken about ten just by waking up," John said, brown eyes glinting. "And it's nothing you couldn't hack into if you wanted. You probably know more about my patients than I do."

"I know they're not here, and I am."

"You can wait ten minutes. You haven't had your morning coffee anyway."

Sherlock sighed, slouching down further, managing – just – to resist complaining that John wasn't available to make said coffee. John almost never did (yesterday being a deliberate exception), and John rarely joined him when he had a cigarette. Both those things could be foregone, if it meant the doctor would finish his tedious paperwork any faster.

"You need a nurse," he said.

"I know," John mused, half not-listening, rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip in what Sherlock considered a very distracting manner. The doctor paused, then sat back, giving his head a small shake. "I do. I'll start looking next week. Shouldn't take long to find someone, I think."

"I'll have Gabriel do it," Sherlock replied with a disinterested wave of his hand.

"I can hire my own nurse, Sherlock."

"You can't hire just anyone, John. I would think that would be obvious."

"Do you want to sit in on the interviews?" his partner asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Boring."

"Well if it'd be boring for you, I'm sure it would be for Gabe, too. He's probably got loads more interesting thieving he could be doing."

"You make it sound like we sneak about at night in black ski masks."

John grinned. "I'd like to see that," he said.

"We are _not_ petty thieves."

"Petty? Nope. Thieves? Yes." He shook his head, returning his gaze to the laptop, much to Sherlock's annoyance. "You can run as many checks on the candidates as you want, but I have to work with whoever it is, so let me do the interviews. Besides, Gabe'll have enough on his plate with everything you've saved up for him, not to mention with the wedding."

Sherlock made a disgusted noise, slouching down even further, almost to the point of discomfort but refusing to give John the satisfaction by sitting up straight.

"The terrible wedding," John said with a grin, leaning over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, deliberately ignoring the protesting squirm.

"Bad enough they're actually going through with it," Sherlock complained. "But requiring me to make a speech?"

"What _has_ this world come to?" John agreed, with far too much humour for Sherlock's taste. "You'd almost think he was your best friend."

"It's all so… _normal_ ," Sherlock said, scowling when he spat out the last word. "Weddings, babies… They've all gone mad."

"To be fair, there's only been one of each this year," John replied. "And I don't think you can count having a dominatrix Irish mum and two gay French dads as normal."

Sherlock huffed, arms folded, refusing to concede the point. It had been annoying but not terribly upsetting when Irene had decided she'd wanted a child, but it had been galling when Charles had actually agreed to her request to provide the paternal DNA. Worse still was that his French lieutenant actually seemed to take an interest – admittedly, that was because of Dominique, Sherlock was sure, but nonetheless.

It smacked of domesticity, and if he weren't careful it would be him and John soon, with little versions of themselves running around, messing up the flat, and demanding to be fed at all hours.

"You're just jealous," John said, grinning and squeezing his knee.

"Jealous? Of what?"

"That she didn't ask you."

"You don't know she didn't," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Mm, I do know," John said. "Because she'd have cleared it with me first. Besides, you'd have said no anyway."

"Quite right," Sherlock snapped. Jealous was entirely the wrong word – relieved was far more accurate. He couldn't imagine Irene ever making that request of him; she'd hardly need to ask to know his feelings on the matter.

"Anyway, you'll hardly have to do anything for Gabe's wedding except look unbearably sexy – sorry, good in a tux and tell an embarrassing story about him. I'm sure you've got plenty."

"Not any that should be repeated unless you want to visit me in prison for the rest of my life."

"You'll think of something," John said, giving him a reassuring and faintly patronizing pat on the leg. "Go have a coffee and a cigarette and let me finish this. I'll be done by the time you are."

"You had better be," Sherlock growled as he pushed himself to standing. "Because we have our own schedule to keep."

* * *

The early September air was warm enough to be pleasant, even clad only in boxer shorts and a dressing gown. John usually made some kind of fond comment about what Sherlock chose to wear on their rather private balcony; the fact that he hadn't this morning annoyed Sherlock, and he lingered over his coffee, smoking three cigarettes instead of his usual one, waiting for John to come to him. It felt almost like defiance – he certainly wasn't going to be allowed to smoke in the flat again anytime soon, and he rarely indulged in this many at once anymore.

At least, not at home where John was watching.

The sound of the balcony door sliding open was like a victory symphony; Sherlock kept his expression deliberately neutral and refused to turn around.

"Coming inside?" John asked. There was a pressure on the cushion behind Sherlock and breath against his neck and ear as John leaned against the back of the outdoor sofa.

"Are you finished?" Sherlock replied, turning his head slightly, annoyed by the grin that split his partner's lips.

"Depends," John said. "How long are you planning on sulking?"

"I am not–" Sherlock cut himself off and John chuckled, planting a kiss against Sherlock's temple.

"Mm, not you, never," his partner agreed. Sherlock took another sip of his coffee, ignoring the fact that it was unpleasantly lukewarm now.

" _You're_ the one who decided to work on our day off together."

"I'm a terrible human being," John agreed. "Never mind that you were plotting to sneak in a meeting with Gabe."

"I fail to see how you've come to that conclusion," Sherlock sniffed coolly.

"Through three years of knowing you," John replied. Sherlock steadfastly refused to react when John's fingers laced into his hair, short nails scratching his scalp lightly.

"You wouldn't let me."

"Considering they probably just walked in the door? Not that it would stop you."

"They'd have slept well, John, in the class they were travelling."

"You'll have time to see him later. Right now, you should have time for me."

"And have you got time for me?" Sherlock asked, letting the cool tone dip back into his voice, knowing John would see right through it.

"I think I might."

"That doesn't sound very convincing. You've probably got your laptop waiting, ready to finish your ridiculous paperwork as soon as my back is turned."

"Which is exactly why I came out here right now," John agreed.

"I wouldn't put it past you," Sherlock muttered, refusing to be entirely swayed – yet.

"Laptop's off," John said with a grin. "I even shut my phone off. _And_ closed the bedroom windows. You know. Just in case. But if you'd rather stay out here talking…"

"Hardly," Sherlock snapped. "Talking is the last thing I had in mind."

"Then let's go," John said, and Sherlock crushed his last cigarette hurriedly, abandoning his half empty coffee cup gladly in favour of whatever John had in mind.

* * *

"Oh for Christ's sake, give me that," John muttered, stretching to reach over Sherlock, feeling fingers close reflexively over his waist. He plucked his partner's phone from the bedside table, catching the startled look in Sherlock's eyes.

"I wasn't–" his partner tried.

"I know," John said. Sherlock had been entirely focused on John in that very deliberate way he had when he was ignoring something else for the doctor's benefit. It made Sherlock no less attentive – in some ways, it made him more so, because the effort seemed to overcome his inherent laziness – but John could always tell the difference.

One hour spent working would get the distraction out of his system, and Sherlock would then happily indulge in a day in bed with John.

 _Sherlock wants to come up_ , he typed. He passed the phone to his partner, who looked caught between irritation and shock. Sherlock scowled and John kissed the twin lines between his eyebrows.

"Go," he said. "I'll be right here when you get back."

Sherlock hesitated, and John wondered if his partner had any idea what that meant. Even in small ways – maybe even without realizing it – John was his priority. Despite everything else. Despite how important his work was to him.

John kissed him again, on the lips this time.

"Go. I mean it."

With a sigh that wasn't quite resignation, Sherlock slipped out of bed, leaned down for a longer kiss, then padded into the bathroom to wash up, not bothering with his discarded dressing gown so John could enjoy the view.

* * *

Sherlock had tried to muster some irritation that Gabriel wasn't even in a dress shirt and tie, let alone a proper suit, but the genuine pleasure and relief at seeing him again overrode any annoyance. Sherlock had dressed properly (of course) but acknowledged – privately – that it _was_ Saturday, and that John was down in their flat, still hopefully dressed in nothing at all.

"Good trip then?" Sherlock asked as the door to Gabriel's flat closed behind him.

"Brilliant," the younger man said with a grin, and Sherlock was pleased by the ease in his friend's features, in his stance. He felt a momentary pang of envy; it would be a delicious treat to escape somewhere with John for two weeks, and he wondered if he could manage that. And how soon.

"Sandra's just gone out for a run," Gabriel continued, padding into his flat, stockinged feet silent against the thick carpet. "Tea?"

"Please," Sherlock replied, making himself at home in the living room. A few hints broadcast their recent trip: aside from the sound of the washing machine running in the kitchen, there was a small replica of the Statue of Liberty resting on a bookshelf next to an identically-sized version of the Empire State Building.

"They're for you," Gabriel said, returning with their tea – a proper service, Sherlock noted happily. He plucked the souvenirs from the bookshelf and Sherlock grinned. John would tease him about it, but that had never stopped the doctor from adding to the small collection in Sherlock's home office.

"Did you go?" Sherlock enquired.

"Yep. Up both. Not worth it unless you like heights or feeling nauseous. Sandra liked it, though."

"That _is_ all that matters," Sherlock pointed out to Gabriel's grin.

"Exactly."

"And the wedding… things?"

"What do I know about dresses?" Gabriel snorted. "Anyway, I wasn't allowed to go to the designer's. Bad luck and all."

"Oh please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Sandra is an intelligent, educated woman. There's no need for that kind of superstition."

"All right," Gabriel agreed, eyes twinkling, "then I think she just wants it to be a surprise. Honestly, I have no idea. I think it's as done as it needs to be at this point, but like I said, I know nothing about dresses. That reminds me, though, I have the two of us booked in at Pierre's next week. I'll send Tina the details."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed. As much as he disliked the idea of weddings, if he was going to do it, he was going to do it properly. No rentals, no one other than his own tailor entrusted with the design and execution. He needed new suits anyway, and so did John, so perhaps the doctor could be dragged along for a second opinion.

"How's the speech going?" Gabriel asked with a grin.

"We _are_ not talking about the speech," Sherlock muttered over the rim of his tea mug, the warning glare only serving to make Gabriel's grin wider.

"What then?" he asked. "Because I doubt you want to see all of my photos and demand a detailed account of everything we did."

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed. He'd been to New York City before – they both had – and he scarcely needed a recounting of its attractions. He paused, eyes darting briefly around the room although the caution was hardly necessary. No one unknown to the guards came in or out of the building without him knowing, and he'd had Gabriel's flat secured himself. Not to mention Gabriel would have checked the moment Sandra had left for her run.

"There was an… incident," he said. Gabriel raised his eyebrows, green eyes still bright with amusement.

"Had to talk to Mycroft, did you?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, annoyed with the cheeky grin he got in response. "Which is not, unfortunately, the worst of it."

The grin vanished, Gabriel sitting back against the couch cushions, attentive. Sherlock pursed his lips, displeased, as he steeled himself to recount the unpleasant conversation with his brother. The younger man listened, features creasing into a frown, and shook his head when Sherlock finished.

"Well if we're staying out of it, then it's a concern but not necessarily a problem. I'll make sure we're clean by tomorrow evening, and we'll be careful, but it – if it's even anything – should blow over."

"That's not all of it," Sherlock said darkly. "Jim knows something."

"What?" Gabriel demanded.

"I'm not sure. Forthrightness was never a strength and now… but he reacted to the name."

"What did he say?"

"Almost nothing," Sherlock replied, earning a surprised look. "The only thing of value made no sense. He insisted he wasn't going to talk about it – about Magnussen, that is, and then insisted he wouldn't tell me anything about the girl."

"What girl?"

"Precisely."

"That was it? From Jim? I mean–"

"Yes, I know. This wasn't detangling his deranged ramblings, Gabriel. This was nothing."

"A girl? But with Jim? That doesn't–" He cut himself off, green eyes widening slightly.

"Doesn't what?" Sherlock demanded.

"I saw Victor," Gabriel replied. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"You made me promise!"

"I did," Gabriel agreed. "But _I_ didn't promise. Not you, anyway. Besides, Sandra had her dress thing with her friend from Barts who lives there now. I had a day to myself. Victor just happened to be up from DC."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't bother to disguise the curiosity or relief. Contact with Victor himself was rare – it usually went through other channels, and it had been years since he'd spoken to his FBI agent personally.

"He know something about this girl?" Sherlock demanded.

"About _a_ girl anyway. A woman, rather," Gabriel replied. "And it's coincidence most likely, but still worth mentioning."

"Who is she?"

"Take what Jim told you and apply it to what Victor could tell me. They know almost nothing."

"We don't work on behalf of the FBI," Sherlock said coolly. "I trust you reminded him of that."

"I told him you'd say so," Gabriel replied. "Only it's not the FBI looking for her. It's the CIA."

"Even worse!" Sherlock snapped. "We do _not_ work for government organizations! Have they all gone mad? Why on Earth would they presume we're willing to be engaged by them?"

"Well, one of them _is_ your brother, and we do have an FBI agent on our payroll. Among other things. But look, Sherlock, the CIA didn't ask Victor to come to us. He does keep a sharp watch on that, and we're not on their radar, at least not the more interesting side of our business. _He_ came to me."

"Why?"

"Because he knows people in the CIA, and we could be far worse off than having a favoured owed to us, even tangentially."

"The FBI has no jurisdiction here."

"But it does in the States. A tip here, a lead there… It would come back to Victor, not to us, but we'd benefit from it."

"So would he. Why not take it on himself?"

"They think she's here."

"And on that flimsy basis, you think she's the same woman Jim mentioned?"

"No, I don't. Like I said, coincidence. And that would be a hell of one. But that doesn't mean there isn't a pattern here."

It could be nothing, Sherlock knew. Connections that appeared obvious were often nothing more than a shimmering deception; seemingly unrelated events or people could be linked by thin strands that stretched across the globe, contact after contact, important as threats or resources or opportunities.

"Who is she, then?" he sighed. "This woman."

"Like I said, they don't know much."

"American?"

"Russian," Gabriel replied, to which Sherlock snorted.

"Typical."

"Former KGB?"

"Too young," Gabriel replied, shaking his head. "SVR, they think. She's an assassin, probably mid- to late-thirties. They have a name, but have no idea if it's her real one or an alias. Anna Anosova."

"A bit repetitive. Is that it?"

"As far as they know."

" _That_ ," Sherlock said, tipping his tea cup toward Gabriel for emphasis, "sounds like a pseudonym."

"I thought so, too. Victor isn't so sure."

"There's no certainty anywhere here," Sherlock sighed. "Maybe she's in her thirties. Maybe they know her name. Maybe she's Russian and SVR. Maybe she's in the UK. Maybe she's not even a woman?"

"He seemed pretty certain on that point, and on the name. Whether or not it's real," Gabriel added, spreading his hands.

"Anything else? A photograph, surely."

"Not that Victor knows of."

Sherlock sat back with a disgusted sigh, unable to entirely ignore the deep-seated spark. The challenge drew him, but it was more than just that. It was more than skirting the limits of the law here, passing unseen under the watchful gaze of the Met – it was walking, blindfolded, along a cliff's edge at night. It all hung in front of him, the possibility, the danger…

The exhilaration of taking so little and turning it into something. A puzzle that had so few pieces no one else would even recognize it as such. A game, one in which the players might not even know they were being played.

He felt it hum along his nerve endings, heightening all his senses the way cocaine had that one time, everything buzzing with potential and possibility.

A woman wanted by the CIA. A girl Jim wanted to protect.

Coincidence, surely.

But the universe was rarely so lazy.

Sherlock felt a smile tugging the edges of his lips, and kept it down, knowing it showed in his eyes anyway.

"Far be it for us to deny Victor his glory," he said, setting his tea down decisively on the saucer. "You know, things are always so much more _interesting_ when you're here."

"Thanks," Gabriel said. "I think. Want me to find out about this woman?"

"No. I want you to find _her_. And I will find Jim's girl. If I'm not mistaken, we'll meet somewhere in the middle."

"What about Magnussen?"

"Let's keep him out of our business, shall we? I will _not_ invite that kind of trouble."

"And if we can't?" Gabriel asked.

"We do," Sherlock snapped. "That isn't optional."


	6. Chapter 6

"You've been getting bored."

It might have been a simple statement, an observation of the obvious, but something in it, some tiny emphasis, perhaps, or an underlying coolness to the tone, suggested a threat.

Certainly the woman standing across from him, separated by the symbolically impenetrable barrier of the desk, took it as such. Narrowing of the eyes, trying to read his intentions. Slight tensing of muscles, age-old reaction bracing her to fight or to run – even though neither was a good strategy here.

She hadn't taken the seat that had, naturally, been offered. He hadn't taken offense. Some people were like that. Clinging to the barest form of resistance. Displaying some miniscule measure of autonomy.

Then again, some people really did just prefer to stand.

"The allure of the quiet life," he continued. "Idyllic. Serene. Restful.

"Really, it's not for you." A smile touched his lips, looking as if it had got lost on its way somewhere else. It didn't reach his eyes.

They never did.

"You'd like something to do."

"And by amazing coincidence, you've got something for me to do," she snapped. He smiled again, more humour in the expression. There was still some life in her.

Good.

He needed that spark now. That curiosity.

He needed someone who would do the job not just for the job. And not just because he'd told her to.

Threats were a good starting point, if need be. But they were never the best motivation. Fearful people made mistakes. Acted out of character. Jumped at shadows.

Curious people were _creative_.

And committed.

He slid a photograph across the desk – really, it hadn't been hard to obtain. The subject was very visible, but in the way of a closed book. All glossy cover, hinting at contents hidden from view but never quite revealing anything.

She studied it, features creasing into a frown.

"He looks familiar. The tall one, I mean."

"Not a face you'd forget," he agreed. "And you've seen it before. Several years ago. I believe you were taking a lovely little holiday in the mountains."

It wasn't quite true, but close enough to jog her memory. Realization brightened her features and she nodded.

"He didn't see you," he said, casually, as if commenting on the weather.

"They never do," she replied. "It's a bit like being a ghost. But all in black." She paused, eyes flickering back to the photograph. "Who's the other one?"

"A pressure point. _The_ pressure point. They both are, in fact. For each other."

She considered that with a pensive frown and a nod.

"Pity," she sighed. "It's always the good looking ones. He'll be difficult to get close to, you know."

"Very difficult. You won't be the first to try."

"So what makes me different?" she asked. "Aside from me being better at it."

"Timing," he replied, passing the tablet on the desk across to her. She held the photograph against it, studying the small screen. "The shorter one is Doctor John Watson. Private physician for the firm. And Sherlock Holmes' partner of three years now.

"Do you know," he continued, conversationally, "that until Doctor Watson arrived on the scene, Mr. Holmes had never once had a romantic relationship. Oh, lovers of course – plenty of them, someone who looks like _that_ is spoilt for choice. But he never bothered with anything more personal. Then, all of a sudden…"

"That's what you want to know?" she asked, surprised – and slightly disappointed.

"Of course not," he said, waving a hand languidly, dismissive. "It's more information for you. Doctor Watson just happens to be hiring a part-time nurse to help him manage the more administrative end of his very private practice. It should suit you. And, from all accounts, Watson is an affable man. Used to be quite fond of female attention, too."

"Seems like he's changed his mind on that score," she commented.

He shrugged in return.

"Perhaps not as much as you might think. Getting personally involved might be… beneficial. To an extent."

_Don't come between them. Don't_ quite _look like you might._

The unspoken instruction was acknowledged with a brief nod.

"What _do_ you want then?" she asked, eyes flickering back, briefly, to the tall, dark figure in the photograph.

"I want to know what he was doing in Pakistan when he met you."


	7. Chapter 7

Even now, three years on and with Jim safely tucked away from the world, he had to tread carefully.

It wasn't Jim's former empire he worried about – most of that had been disabled. Particularly the parts and people who presented the greatest potential threats. There had been those who'd been especially loyal to Jim, who wouldn't have taken well to a change in management. There were portions of Jim's far reaching enterprise that relied too heavily on his resources and connections for Sherlock's business to absorb them without investing more than they were worth. He let them fall – a controlled detonation, of course – and reaped everything he could have from their collapse.

Others though… Some branches were viable on their own, useful as nominally independent entities who knew which way the winds were blowing. Sherlock had left those alone, but had also left them with the knowledge that his benevolence came with a price. Cooperation was the easiest option, and those who hadn't cooperated had served as a good warning to the rest.

He did, after all, have Interpol to appease.

And there were others. People singled out here and there who had the access Sherlock needed without unnecessary upward ambition. Those who had carved out their space and knew better than to risk it for the tenuous prospect of something more. They had more to lose than to gain, and were intelligent enough to see it.

He collected them the way they collected secrets; keeping them close but hidden. They expanded his homeless network but weren't necessarily a permanent part of it. Most of them had enough resources – financial and personal – to move around as needed, without arousing suspicions on either side of the law.

It was everything he did, but in very different circles.

Some of them doubtlessly knew each other – Sherlock occasionally made certain that they did – but if they spoke of him, it was only in generalities, and never without his knowledge. They knew better, even when they knew each other.

The streets were always cautious, even more so when it came to Jim.

But they were never quiet, especially not for someone who knew how to listen to them.

He gave himself three days, telling John he'd be away, and taking to London's overcrowded streets, its abandoned alleyways, its forgotten arches. Down here, where life was more immediate, lived by the day, or even by the hour, no one knew him. They knew his name, and his disguised face, but the two didn't go together. _Mister Holmes_ wasn't someone who would come here, but he was someone who traded for information through this infrequent intermediary, and someone with a long memory. The more reliable the informant, the better he paid. The only thing he took was what people knew, what they saw, what they heard. He paid with cash or cigarettes or mobile phones.

The phones paid off the most – it wasn't uncommon for a photograph or a short sound file to trade hands. The people he dealt with knew the value of good information, and how to get it.

Still it took time; those he'd plucked from the wreckage of Jim's empire weren't good at trust, especially not when Jim's name came up again, nothing more than a whisper, but as good as a threat to them. Sherlock was patient, always aware of the clock ticking down the hours and minutes at the back of his mind, but waiting paid off.

By early afternoon on the third day, he was satisfied he had what he needed to make a start – nowhere near the information he wished he had, but if it had been easy to find, someone would have found it before him.

He went home and scrubbed the city from his skin, then lingered in the sauna, imagining the heat and the steam cleansing every millimeter. By the time John got home from work, Sherlock looked precisely as if he'd returned from a routine business trip, clean-shaven, curls meticulously styled, nails manicured, smartly dressed.

Any plans the doctor might have had for them were derailed by Sherlock's; he put John in a tuxedo and then himself, and dragged his not-entirely-reluctant partner to a symphony gala, soaking London's high society. The conversation glittered as much as the jewellery and the clothing, and Sherlock took care to peacock, showing himself and John off, moving from conversation to conversation as if bored with the whole thing, until he found what he wanted.

It was the polar opposite of the streets but somehow still the same – Jim had had people everywhere, and useful was useful no matter where Sherlock found it. A few of them up here had been more than savvy enough to see which way the wind had been blowing, and had found their new lifestyles equally as comfortable without much change in what they did.

Still, he encountered the same wary resistance at Jim's name; the information he needed wasn't withheld, but he made a point of remembering the uncertainty. He'd need to keep his eyes on these people for a while now, to see how they settled after this – or if they tried to run.

It would be stupid, but, he reminded himself when he re-joined John, savouring the doctor's warm, welcoming grin, the way an arm snaked around his waist, claiming him, some people were idiots.

After all, someone had given John up.

Sherlock didn't regret that, of course, but he did find it entirely moronic.

He let John take them home just before midnight and stripped the doctor from his tuxedo, kissing him everywhere. Sherlock took his time, relishing the hand in his hair, the groan of protest when Sherlock let John slip free of his mouth. John's hands settled on his hips, watching with wide, pupil-darkened eyes, as Sherlock prepped himself.

He was rolled onto his back, legs hooked over John's shoulders, arching up when John thrust in, his movements deep and slow.

"Put your arms up," John managed, voice husky, almost withholding a moan when Sherlock did as ordered. He loved the way the simple action made John look, loved how possessed he felt. John timed it right, both of them coming together, shuddering, the mouth against his greedy and demanding.

"Mm," John hummed as their breathing slowed, warm limbs entangling, "You should go away more often."

Sherlock smiled, carding his hands through John's hair.

"I am going away again," he murmured, not missing the flash of disappointment John tried to hide.

"You are?"

"We both are. To Ireland, this weekend."

"Are we?" John asked. "And what are we going there for?"

"To see Irene." Sherlock grimaced slightly, not entirely annoyed, when John pinched a nipple quickly.

"We just saw Irene," he pointed out.

"That was hardly a social visit."

"Something tells me this won't be either."

"I have some work for her," Sherlock replied. "Not something I can pass on via phone or email."

"So, basically, you're going to do the exact thing to her that Mycroft did to you. The one that, if I remember right, annoyed you a little bit."

"No," Sherlock said, putting a feigned cool note in his voice, "I've told her we're coming."

"You're using me as cover then."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, stretching, "I like it when you cover me."

"You're terrible," John sighed, but with a smile in his voice that meant he didn't believe a word of that.

"You love me anyway," Sherlock replied. John leaned up for a kiss, and Sherlock could still feel the smile against his lips.

"Well, you do take me to all sorts of exotic places."

"Dublin isn't exotic," Sherlock snorted.

"And I get to hang out with all sorts of posh people. Like famous former opera singers."

"She'll be pleased to see you," Sherlock said.

"She always is," John replied. "At least _someone_ makes me feel wanted."

"Oh, did you feel unwanted just now? I must have misinterpreted that."

"Ha," John muttered, pinching Sherlock's hip before adjusting himself into a more comfortable position, drawing the covers over them. "Dublin this weekend it is. But I get to pick the next date night."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed, voice drowsy, feeling sleep stealing over him. It probably meant he was in for another pub quiz night, but after three days without John, the prospect of whatever the doctor would plan for them was still appealing.

"Remind me to tell you about the nurse interviews tomorrow morning," John murmured, voice barely reaching Sherlock through the comfortable haze of semi-consciousness.

"Fine," he said again, or thought he did, aware only of John's breath against his skin, the warmth of the body curled up next to his. He felt lips press against his again, lightly, but was asleep before he could return the kiss.

* * *

The knock on the door surprised John slightly; he wasn't expecting anymore patients after the last one half an hour ago. He did have walk-ins occasionally, but his patients, all of whom worked for Sherlock, tended to schedule in advance if it wasn't emergency, and it seemed a bit early for a shooting.

The thought made him smirk, the expression changing into a smile when Sherlock strode in, glaring at the office as if daring it to offend him.

"Do you have an appointment?" John enquired, the professional tone belied by the familiar smile. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, who only grinned wider.

"Don't be absurd. You don't have any patients for the rest of the day."

"Hacked my schedule again, did you?"

"I have _access_ to your schedule," Sherlock sniffed. "You do work for me."

"I work for Gabe. As you've so often pointed out."

"Who works for me," Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively.

" _Do_ you need a doctor?" John asked, folding his arms, still grinning. "You look good. I mean in good health, of course."

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped. "But you need a nurse."

"Yes," John agreed. "Which is why I'll be hiring one as soon as you've narrowed down who I can interview."

Sherlock passed his phone across the desk, subjecting John to another glare. John skimmed the short list of names on the screen: Elizabeth Newman, Mary Morstan, and Nadia Khan – all women, he noted. There had been a few men who had applied, and John couldn't help finding it a bit endearing that Sherlock had eliminated what he'd (of course) see as potential competition.

"Those three. None of the others."

"You could have just emailed me the list, you know," John pointed out.

"Who knows when you might have received it," Sherlock replied.

"Right, because I'm so swamped with patients – you did just point out you'd 'accessed' my schedule, so you know I'm available. Or you could have called… texted… This doesn't seem like something to drag the head of a major international organization away from his desk."

"You need to get this right," Sherlock sniffed.

"Are you worried about hiring someone new?"

" _I'm_ not doing the hiring. You are. Hence the worry."

"Well you probably know more about these three than they know about themselves now. I don't want you to worry."

"I'll worry whenever I want," Sherlock replied, and John grinned again, pushing himself to his feet so he could circle his desk to give Sherlock a kiss.

"Thanks," he said, gesturing with the phone. "I mean it. This'll make life easier."

"Oh good, perhaps then you'll have more time for me."

"Right, it's my schedule that really impedes our time together," John said.

"It does if you're doing paperwork when you should be in bed with me."

"Well, soon that won't be a problem. I'll do the interviews as soon as we get back from Dublin."

"Make sure you have no scheduling to do while we're there," Sherlock sniffed.

"Don't worry," John said, winding his arms around his partner's waist. "I intend to give Irene my full attention."

"Irene?" Sherlock asked, arching his eyebrows.

"Slip of the tongue," John assured him with a cheeky grin that made Sherlock sigh. "Now get back to work – I know you can't have run out of people to swindle. And if you don't let me finish here, I _will_ have to take some work to Dublin."

"Don't you dare," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.

"Then get out of here and let me schedule these interviews," John said. "I promise I'm all yours tonight."

"I may not be available," Sherlock said.

"I'll make it worth your while. I promise."

"Well, if you insist…" his partner sighed. "I suppose I can work you into my schedule."

"Good," John said, releasing his partner and surprising Sherlock by patting him on the bum, laughing at the startled expression. "Now get back to work and I'll see you tonight. All of you."

"You're lucky I put up with you acting as though you were charge, ordering me about," Sherlock replied, and John laughed again.

"Sherlock, you wouldn't have it any other way."


	8. Chapter 8

One day, John thought, it might stop surprising him that Sherlock seemed to have a flat of his own in every city they visited.

It wasn't quite true – but close enough that it felt that way, at least to John, who had grown up staying with relatives whenever possible, or sharing a double bed with Harry in a cramped hotel room, their parents in the room's other bed.

The first time he and Sherlock been to Dublin, John had been half expecting to stay with Irene, something that had puzzled Sherlock to no end.

"Why would we?" his partner had asked. "She doesn't stay with us in London."

So John had shifted his expectations to some disgustingly luxurious hotel, which had also confused his partner, and made John wonder if he could ever explain how extraordinary it actually was to own so much property. When he'd tried, Sherlock had very reasonably replied that he was, after all, in international real estate. It wasn't difficult for him to acquire a suitable flat.

His idea of "suitable" was different than John's, of course.

His idea of "acquire" probably was, too.

It was about half the size of their flat in London, which might have been reasonable if they'd lived there year round or spent significant amounts of time there, but given how infrequently it was used, it still felt like something of a waste to John.

Particularly as they did little more than drop off their bags and freshen up before heading to Irene's.

She looked casually stunning when she greeted them, wrapped in a dark blue silk kimono highlighted with intricate golden patterns, dark hair swept up. It struck John that she was probably one of those rare people for whom the appearance of effortless was actually effortless.

"Come in," she said, kissing each of them briefly on the cheek. "Aaron's asleep."

It still seemed odd to think of her as someone's mum, and John could tell by the way that Sherlock carefully side-stepped baby toys and other paraphernalia that he hadn't entirely adjusted to the idea, either. Irene poured them tea, claiming a seat next to an end table holding a baby monitor.

The flat seemed silent, not just because of the sleeping infant, but John was used to being greeted and served tea by Irene's long-time valet.

"Alexander?" Irene asked when John enquired. "Oh, he's on holidays, off to see family in Corsica."

"He has family?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "Somehow, I never thought of that."

"Everyone's got family somewhere, John," Irene said with a smile.

"Unfortunately," Sherlock sighed, and John leaned over to give his partner a condescending pat on the knee.

"It could be worse," he said.

"How could it possibly be worse than Mycroft?"

John shrugged, taking a sip of his tea.

"He could be twins."

"Let's not even entertain that possibility, shall we?" Sherlock asked, the faint shudder that passed through his shoulders making John grin. "John," his partner warned, and John backed off, holding up a hand placatingly.

"Speaking of family, John, I wonder if I might saddle you with mine and borrow yours for the evening," Irene said. She nodded at Sherlock when John gave her a questioning look. "Provided you're comfortable taking care of a three month old infant for several hours."

"I don't mind that," John said with a smile, ignoring Sherlock's soft snort. For all his partner's posturing, Sherlock wasn't so opposed to the idea of children – at least not if they belonged to other people. John hadn't been around when David had been a baby, but he'd seen how easily Sherlock had cared for Olivia when necessary.

Of course, now that John was in the picture, Sherlock had a convenient means of passing off the responsibility.

"Business?" he asked, glancing between Sherlock and Irene.

"Of a sort," Irene replied. "An affair with former colleagues. I need someone pretty and attentive to wear on my arm."

"Former colleagues?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"The artistic kind," Irene assured him. "I will return him without a scratch, I promise you."

"And when she says that, you know she means it," Sherlock added. John rolled his eyes at his partner, lips tugging into a smile.

"You're welcome to him," he said to Irene.

"Surely I get a say," Sherlock sniffed.

"Nope," John replied. "You'll only be there to look good. And get drinks."

"I'm surrounded," Sherlock muttered, leaning back into the sofa cushions and glaring at John over his tea cup. "It's just as well I love you."

"Lucky for me," John said with a grin, squeezing Sherlock's ankle.

"But you are _not_ allowed to decide you want to have children while I'm out."

"What about after you come back?" John asked.

"Nor then," Sherlock said sharply.

"Only if you promise not to be swept off your feet by some gorgeous actress."

"Oh I will be," Sherlock said. "If only for a few hours. Pretty and attentive, after all. I'll be besotted."

"And you do it so well," Irene assured him. "If anyone there were to know, they'd kill for half your acting talent."

"You deserve some kind of award," John agreed.

"For putting up with the two of you?" Sherlock said. "I should think I deserve a knighthood."

* * *

"We do need to discuss family."

Irene glanced at Sherlock across the small space of the car's darkened interior, arching an eyebrow.

"I thought we already had. Unless you're about to tell me that you and John _are_ considering children."

He repressed the faint shudder, subjecting Irene to a warning glare that – as usual – didn't seem to faze her.

"If I ever do, you have my permission to shoot me," he snapped, annoyed at the small smile that played on her lips. "Not my family. Nor yours. Jim's."

The flicker of surprise was gratifying; it was a rare treat to be able to catch Irene unawares.

"Jim's family? They're dead, aren't they?"

"Yes, I thought so, too," Sherlock murmured. "But perhaps it's only the family we know of who met an unfortunate and rather abrupt end."

Irene gave him an expectant look, and Sherlock recounted the conversation – if it could be called that – he'd had with Jim. Her reaction to "the girl" was similar to Gabriel's, but without any potentially connected information from Victor. Sherlock filled her in on that, too, watching closely for any reaction, any realization that tidbits of information gleaned over the years might be linked.

He hadn't expected any sudden revelations and wasn't disappointed. Irene nodded slowly, lost in thought for a moment, before her gaze refocused.

"You think this girl is – what? Surely not a child."

At this, Sherlock did shudder; he'd considered it, and the thought was no less unsettling now than the first time it had crossed his mind.

"Possible, but unlikely. This _is_ Jim we're talking about."

"A taste for power can easily overrule any more basic tastes."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He'd thought of that, too – although he strongly doubted Jim had ever taken any woman seriously enough to see her as a considerable threat. Nor had Jim liked messes; it was so much simpler to just do away with someone. Or rather, have someone else do away with them.

Execution – or the threat of it – was far more powerful, especially coming from a man like Jim.

"Still, he wouldn't leave loose ends, especially not in the form of a child," Sherlock said.

"No, he wouldn't," Irene agreed. "What then? How do you think this girl is related to him?"

"Speculation without all the facts is useless," Sherlock replied, ignoring the small, cynical snort his Irish lieutenant gave. "Educated guesses or reasonable deductions are one thing, but what are we supposed to conclude on the suggestion that Jim might still have living family and that he mentioned a girl around the same time Victor mentioned an unknown Russian woman to Gabriel? We could end up with Jim as the long-lost descendent of the Romanovs with this mystery assassin as his royal twin sister."

Irene's lips curled again, eyes twinkling.

"Do suggest that to any of the producers you meet tonight – it would make an excellent film. We could make millions. More millions, of course."

"Please feel free to pass it on to whomever you see fit," Sherlock sighed. "The entertainment industry is your area. I'm just there to look good and bring you drinks, remember. We have starting points, Irene. And Ireland is Jim's starting point."

"You want me to trace this potential family."

"Yes. Quietly."

"Of course," she replied smoothly, the tone of her voice not one that set off any alarms in Sherlock's mind. Irene was no different than him – she lived for the thrill of walking along the cliff's edge, tempting life and fate, but she also knew precisely when to back off, when treading with care and delicacy was the only way forward.

"Good," he said, putting a faint undercurrent of warning in his voice. Irene didn't fail to notice, arching an impeccably shaped eyebrow at him again, but said nothing.

"There's someone we need to keep an eye on tonight," she commented, tone casual as she checked her makeup – entirely unnecessarily, Sherlock knew – in a small compact.

"Potential problem?" Sherlock enquired.

"Potential client," Irene corrected. "Ours, not mine. I do believe she has some merchandise she'd like to move – very discreetly, of course, and for as large as sum as possible."

"Does she have a name?"

"Oh yes, but why spoil the surprise? You'll know her when you see her, Sherlock. She's far shrewder than she lets on, but we all have our weaknesses, don't we? Pretty young men are generally a good bet."

"What would John say if he were here?" Sherlock asked, faking a stern tone that made Irene grin and pat his cheek.

"If I hadn't needed someone to mind Aaron, I'd have brought him along. I think he secretly enjoys watching you charm women and get exactly what you want. You would have made a formidable team, both of you vying for her, except for your rather endearing tendency to become noticeably jealous when he's flirting with someone else."

"I do _not_ get jealous!" Sherlock protested. "And it would _not_ be endearing if I did."

"Yes, you do," Irene murmured, a smile playing on her lips. "And yes, it is. As I said, we all have our weaknesses."

* * *

Irene hadn't left him much in the way of instructions but John hardly needed them. Sherlock, he suspected, would have got an itemized (and probably timed) list, but aside from the necessary information about feeding and diapers, he'd been left on his own.

He settled himself in for a quiet evening without Sherlock – John was no stranger to those, but sharing them with an infant was a bit of a change. It seemed like ages since Olivia had been this tiny, although Tricia and Jamie's daughter, Heather, had just begun walking.

John played with Aaron for a short while, lying down next to him on the floor and snapping a picture of them together to send to Irene if she texted to see how things were going. After a brief moment's thought, he posted it on facebook, tagging Dominique in it and almost instantly receiving an overjoyed reply in not-quite-perfect English.

When Aaron began to fuss and rub his eyes, John scooped him up and prepared a bottle, bouncing the baby carefully in his free arm. It would be nice, he thought, to be so easily satisfied with such simple comforts: a bit of food and a cozy place to sleep. He tucked the baby on the sofa next to him, enjoying the tiny patch of warmth and the infant smell.

When Aaron was comfortable and deeply enough asleep not to be disturbed, John snagged his laptop, adjusting the settings to ensure that his footsteps online couldn't be followed. He'd learned a lot as Sherlock's partner – some of which Sherlock had taught him deliberately – and not least of those was how to look into someone's past without them looking back.

He felt vaguely guilty about it, but surely the background checks Sherlock had done on the three potential nurses had been a lot more invasive. Besides, he told himself, all employers did it now, and he wanted to know something about each woman before she came in. Sherlock could give him a detailed history right down to date and time of birth (and probably birth weight, if John felt he needed to know), but the human side was never quite captured in all the facts.

He trusted his partner to have done a thorough job – impersonal but thorough. John wanted the personal side now; after all, he'd have to work with whoever he ended up choosing, and he'd rather have a sense of potential compatibility before they met.

Satisfied that he was appropriately masked, John set to work.

* * *

His skills _were_ impressive, Mary had to admit – but perhaps that wasn't so surprising, given who his partner was. He was bound to have learned something along the way.

Still, she'd known when Sherlock was looking into her, if only because she'd set herself up to know. Mary Morstan was a work of art, even if she did say so herself. It was a good deal more difficult than most people imagined to make sure all of the bases were properly covered without arousing any suspicions. Especially when a man like Sherlock Holmes was checking into her background. A cursory glance – or even some shallow digging – would yield nothing that seemed odd, but under such scrutiny… It was risky, no matter how well-developed the lie.

And playing with someone so close to him required care.

She'd felt a stab of professional pride when he'd been apparently satisfied. It wasn't enough to let down her guard, because a man like that would check again, and again, at random intervals, and chase down any inkling of a suspicion.

John Watson was clumsier at it than his partner, but more adept than most. Mary watched him watching her life – perusing all the social network sites, using the links he made to follow him back to his own.

Parts of his own online life were private, or as private as they could be under the circumstances. Mary flicked through photographs only select friends and family had access to, noting with some curiosity that there were few pictures of John and Sherlock together. It wasn't entirely surprising; Holmes wasn't a man who liked to put himself in the spotlight, nor did he strike her as the type of feel at ease with a quick, impromptu shot.

There _were_ a lot of photographs of John with children. Mary could trace the lives of both his niece and the daughter of his army friends. There were more pictures of him with Olivia Holmes – it might be that she was a year or so older than the other child, but Mary made mental note of it anyway. There was a new picture – a mere hour old – of him with Irene Adler's son.

Other recent photographs contained former army friends at what looked like various London pubs or flats, as well as a liberal sprinkling of scenes from cities elsewhere around the world. There were not, Mary noted, any photographs from the private Caribbean island she knew Holmes owned, one that he appeared to have purchased as a personal retreat.

She suspected those existed, along with potentially more photographs of them together, but they didn't exist anywhere she could access them.

Yet.

Still, the tour through his life was instructive; he was clearly looking for a personal sense of each nurse he meant to interview. Vaguely, Mary wondered what he would take way from the perfectly crafted, imperfect person she was online.

Whatever it was, it would be nowhere near as useful as what she had learned about him.


	9. Chapter 9

Mary scarcely had time to register the door opening before Holmes strode in, his appearance abrupt enough that she didn't need to feign the startled jolt. Grey eyes swept over her, disapproving, and she bristled reflexively, trying not to let it show. If Holmes had picked up on it, it didn't seem to faze him – but of course it wouldn't. Even if he realized his evaluation had offended her, he wouldn't care.

Why bother with what some part-time nurse thought?

She took a deep breath, giving herself the moment to regain her composure. He _had_ startled her; the last of John Watson's patients had left for the day and she hadn't been expecting anyone to waltz in like they owned the place – although, it was highly likely that Holmes did, in fact, do just that.

Mary made a mental note to find out that bit of information. It was probably useless, but it would niggle at her if she didn't.

"Can I help you?" she asked solicitously.

"No," he replied, voice cool, but not dripping with the disdain she'd half been expecting. Up close, he wasn't quite as tall as she'd thought he'd be – still well above average, and the slight difference did nothing to lessen his imposing presence.

There would have been no mistaking his own sense of importance, even if she hadn't known who he was – Sherlock Holmes was a man who took great pride in his appearance and broadcasted that fact. The dark suit was cut perfectly for him – obviously bespoke – the expensive leather shoes were gleaming, his hair styled to perfection, his fingernails trim and clearly manicured.

It might have struck her as strange that he wasn't wearing a tie, and that this seemed to be a habit, but it was just another tool in his arsenal. The top two buttons of his shirt were strategically undone, exposing pale skin, and the shirt itself, and the suit jacket, made it clear that the body underneath was very well maintained.

"Have you got an appointment?" she prompted, keeping up the role of oblivious nurse.

He sighed, pursing his lips, and Mary admitted to herself that she could certainly see – at least outwardly – what had made John Watson give up on women for him.

"Yes," he drawled. "Unfortunately."

"If you just give me your name–" she began.

"Not with you," he snapped, cutting her off, grey eyes flashing irritation. "John!"

"The doctor's–"

"Finished for the day and keeping me waiting. John!"

There was a muffled reply from the office behind Mary's desk; Holmes strode toward the door, expression stormy, and Mary rose quickly as if to attempt to stop him.

"Sir, you can't–"

"It's okay, Mary," John said, opening his office door, the disarming smile on his face only making his partner glower more. "He's not a patient. Nor has he got any, really."

Holmes made a disgusted noise, rolling his eyes.

"It's _patience_ , John. Stick with the diagnosing, please. Your word play skills are sorely lacking."

"At least one of us has a sense of humour," John said lightly, his grin growing, making his eyes twinkle. Holmes actually huffed, making Mary raise an eyebrow, but John shot her a wink.

"You're scaring your newest employee," he said. Holmes gave him a cool glance, then cast it over her. "Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, my new nurse, Mary Morstan."

"Yes," Holmes replied. "I do know. I selected her, if you'll recall."

" _I_ selected her," John said. " _You_ shortlisted her."

"Now who's being particular about semantics? You're wasting time. We have to go."

"We're not due there for another hour," John sighed.

"The sooner we get there, the sooner it will be finished. Pierre will make time for us, and we can get your suit fittings out of the way before Gabriel arrives."

"Suit fittings?" Mary asked.

"Some of us are in a wedding," John replied, eyes twinkling as Holmes' expression grew darker.

"Oh, how lovely!" she said. "I love weddings." It wasn't entirely a lie either – there was something briefly enjoyable about the extravagant display of affection, made tolerable by an open bar.

Plus you never knew who you might meet. She'd been introduced to some of her most interesting clients that way.

Pity what happened to them afterwards. But business was business.

Something she expected Holmes knew very well.

"That makes two of us," John said, flashing her a cheeky grin. Holmes drew a breath, the action pulling him up to his full height, but John cut off any retort before it had a chance to be voiced. "I'm all finished here. Let's get going."

* * *

Predictably enough, Sherlock's petulance vanished as soon as they reached Pierre's. Much as the wedding might annoy him – and John knew it was nothing more than annoyance, because his partner didn't actually want the wedding to be cancelled and would have been appalled at not being asked to be best man – the interior of tailor's shop always had a calming effect.

Here, Sherlock was always fussed over and pampered, something John knew he loved, but this wasn't false attention based on how much he could pay. Pierre made a healthy sum from each of Sherlock's suits, but it was well-deserved, and a lot of professional pride went into them.

John strongly suspected that the tailor very much appreciated having Sherlock as a model to show off his work.

John always appreciated it, too.

And, frankly, Sherlock never tired of seeing John stripped down to his underwear, standing on the elevated cylinder so Pierre could fuss with a measuring tape and jot down numbers and let Sherlock dither over cloth types and colours.

He felt very much on display, and with the predatory way Sherlock watched him, he knew he was.

Despite Sherlock's general lack of patience, he could be remarkably restrained – although John thought it wasn't just to tease him, but also to avoid Pierre's disapproval.

To distract himself from the very obvious way Sherlock was undressing John and mentally cataloguing all the things he could do to him, the doctor tried to imagine where Sherlock would go if Pierre ever decided to retire.

Possibly Sherlock just wouldn't let that happen.

Sherlock was more restrained once Gabriel arrived, but he wasn't entirely willing to let someone else's presence stand in the way of showing off. Pierre had already begun the work on the designs, and from what John had seen, it was going to take some effort for him to pay attention to the actual ceremony.

He'd seen Sherlock in a tux before, plenty of times, but he doubted he'd get bored of how appealing it made his partner.

Even when the suit wasn't completely finished, more of a sketch that John could picture fully put together. Sherlock had accused him – more than once – of having a limited imagination, but John preferred to think of it as being kept in reserve for the more important things in life.

Apparently there was even going to be a very spiffy top hat.

The knowledge made John grin – he could picture _that_ easily, too, and the more he learned about it, the more he appreciated being involved with the best man.

This wedding, he thought, was going to be a hell of a lot of fun. In oh _so_ many ways.

* * *

_Dark rock, hovering over his head, out of arm's reach, a rough, uneven curve arcing away, lit by flickering firelight._

_Not a fire._

_Camping lantern._

_Steady light, flickering shadows caused by movement – someone else, in there with him, and the air was trapped in his lungs as he was trapped underground, caged by pain and someone leaning over him –_

_He caught a wrist in his hand, movement making his nerves scream while automatically registering surprise – thinner than he'd expected, smoother skin. Pulse even under his fingertips, a calm counterpoint to the sledgehammer that had taken the place of his heart, breaking his ribs from the other side._

" _I have to check. And it's nothing I haven't seen before. Any of it. Believe me, Mister Holmes."_

_Was it a faint trace of amusement in dark eyes, or just scattered light from the lantern?_

_He closed his eyes; he couldn't tell anyway. The pain was unresolved, democratic and nomadic, spread everywhere but moving once he thought he'd found it._

_Shadows flickered on the low ceiling – he'd opened his eyes again – shifting from what they had been. Eyes meeting his were lighter now, more familiar but also wrong, wrong for the time, wrong for the place – he could never have been there, impossible._

" _You weren't here," Sherlock whispered._

_Everything about Gabriel was wrong. Too old – a decade now? Too polished. Tuxedo – tailor made, sharp, smart, perfect colours, design, weight – too jarring here, too obvious, it would stand out, make him a target._

_Gabriel leaned down, so close Sherlock should have felt body heat but didn't, could smell cologne – Gabriel's cologne, but that too had changed since then – breath against Sherlock's ear but the whispered voice wasn't his, it was Irene's:_

"Run."

* * *

He snapped awake in the darkness, so tense muscles were aching, not just a memory of how it had felt, but in genuine protest. Trying for a deep slow breath didn't work; his lungs held on for too long a moment before he could exhale, accompanied by a flash of panic that it might wake John. That maybe it already had.

Sherlock forced himself to listen, to follow the ebb and flow of his partner's breathing, hearing taking the place of sight in their pitch black bedroom. John was on his back (typical for him), face turned toward Sherlock's side of the bed, judging from the sound and the brush of breath on Sherlock's skin as John exhaled.

He repressed a shudder, hard, at the remembered sensation of breath against his ear, divorcing it deliberately from John's sleeping breath on his skin. He would not, _not_ , associate that with John.

Any of it.

John hadn't awoken, breath still slow and sure, everything about him relaxed, still. It was Sherlock who held all the tension, the adrenaline buzz clouding his mind, driving his pulse mad.

Moving carefully brought protests – muscles still tense from being locked – paralyzed – in the dream. Sherlock winced, keeping his breathing regular, paying attention to muscle memory that told him where everything was in the room, letting him avoid hazards to get free.

He hated the rush of relief when he stepped into the corridor; the dream had mingled the cave with his bedroom – it had happened before, immediately following the incident. Disappointing that the effort he'd put into bringing his mind to heel was so easily overridden.

 _Everywhere_ felt confining after the nightmare.

He closed the door on John gently, for the doctor's sake, not his own, and padded, barefoot, into the kitchen. It was far too early (or late) for a glass of whiskey but he had never bothered conforming to social expectations. Sherlock took the drink out onto the balcony, closing his eyes as bare feet came into contact with the cold floor, relishing the cool night breeze, the way the chill focussed him for a moment, chasing away tiredness, however briefly.

He lit a cigarette – such an unconscious habit now, he should really pay more attention, he _had_ stopped completely, on more than one occasion – guilt flared when his absent mulling over the habit associated itself with Gabriel.

Gabriel _hadn't_ been there – pain or no pain, Sherlock knew that. A mind trained over a lifetime to observe and catalogue didn't stop in the face of distractions ( _most_ distractions, because John could certainly turn everything off when he wanted), and he'd filed everything he could from the patchy, intermittent memories.

It had been him and Irene. No one else.

A circle of lantern light that had expanded to include Mycroft _only_ out of absolute necessity and Sherlock knew it stopped there. No one else knew, not even those closest each of them.

Telling Mycroft had been… difficult.

Not telling Gabriel had been more so.

He felt another flare of guilt, dampened it with a sip of whiskey, enjoying the burn against the back of his throat. The relief was short-lived: the paralyzed dread crept back in, dragging fatigue with it, unwavering despite the acrid tang of nicotine, immune to the alcohol after that first sip.

Sherlock closed his eyes, pressing the heel of a hand against his forehead. Felt the curl of smoke against his skin, took another drag. A deep breath and another, trying to use the smell to ground himself but concentration skittered away, vanishing when he tried to grasp it.

Gabriel in his tuxedo, Irene's voice in his ear.

 _Stop it_ , he snarled at himself, the flare of anger doing nothing to dissipate the edge of tension, making it sharper instead, so much so that a familiar sound – John's footsteps, so welcome under other circumstances – made muscles tighten, put him on the defensive with another shot of unwanted adrenaline.

"All right?" his partner asked, silhouetted against the balcony door, some weak lamplight from the living room glowing gently in the background.

"Couldn't sleep," Sherlock said, tone too curt, even for him, trying to keep his jaw from staying clenched.

"Not unusual for you," John commented, arms crossing in that infuriating and endearing way that meant he knew something Sherlock didn't want him to know.

"No," Sherlock agreed. John might drop it, leave it there. Sherlock didn't need as much sleep as other people. Used the hours for other things. Work. The violin. Composing. Study.

Generally not, he had to admit to himself, for drinking and smoking by himself in the middle of the night.

"It's one thing when you don't need it," John commented, almost off hand, clearly evaluating Sherlock's answer.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed. He wasn't as annoyed as he ought to be. John knew him well – far too well, sometimes – but he _was_ tired, caught between aching to go back to bed and resistance against the nightmare, against being trapped there again, so close to his own mortality.

"Probably just you making an excuse for another massage," John said, the slight smile in his voice alleviating some of Sherlock's tension – John was clearly unwilling to push it any further.

And a massage _would_ work. Most likely.

"Figures," the doctor said. "Hang on, stay there, there's something else that will help, I think."

He vanished before Sherlock could agree and reappeared with two small tablets.

"Take these. Doctor's orders. Let it dissolve it your mouth, it'll work faster. It's safe, don't worry," John added as Sherlock gave the two white pills a dubious glare. "I _do_ know what I'm doing – although, technically, you shouldn't have melatonin in this country without a prescription, you know."

Sherlock froze, glass still pressed against his lips from the swig of whiskey he'd taken to wash down the remnants what John would have thought was an innocuous sleep aid.

"Or while drinking, but that small amount shouldn't matter too much– Sherlock?" John cut himself off, posture loosening with sudden concern. "Something wrong?"

"White bottle, blue cap?" Sherlock asked, the fragile, tenuous hope in his chest shattering when John nodded. "From my medicine cabinet?"

"Yeah," the doctor said, expression turning confused, tinged with alarm. "Why?"

"You're going to have to–"

The shock on John's face was outdone by his doctor's reflexes; Sherlock felt strong arms underneath his, straining to compensate for the fact that his own legs had turned to jelly.

" _It's perfectly safe. I've used it on loads of my friends."_

"Yes, but–" Sherlock managed, voice slurred and reaching his ears as if across a large gulf, more aware of John than his own body, the tufts of dishevelled dark blond-silver hair, lines of tendons on his neck, warm smell of bed.

"But what, Sherlock? What–"

But he'd always been _lying down_ and knowing he was taking them, a last resort when he _needed_ sleep but couldn't get it, the promise of dreamlessness much less critical now than it had been when she'd given him that first bottle ten years ago.

"Call Irene," he managed, tongue thick, the words almost catching.

"What?" John demanded.

"Call Irene," he repeated, dimly wondering if it was intelligible because John's brown eyes were clouded, lips half parted, shaking his head, confused, almost frantic. Sherlock wanted to say something else, reassure him, bring back the expressions he loved on John, not the ones that knotted his stomach, but the world slipped out from under him and he couldn't help but close his eyes, surrendering it, distantly amused when it occurred to him that at least now, he would get some sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

"Good morning, John–" Mary's friendly greeting was cut off when she met John's gaze, smile fading, and John tried not to wince at the way her eyes widened slightly.

He'd been hoping it wouldn't show quite so much.

"What happened?" she asked. "You look shattered!"

"Yeah, well," John said, failing to keep the bite from his voice as he dropped his bag, heavily, onto his desk. "That's what happens when you accidentally drug your boyfriend and have to make an emergency midnight phone call to a famous former opera singer."

Mary paused a moment, staring, and John wished he could retract his words – he knew he'd have to put up with a barrage of questions that he didn't really have the energy for.

"Sorry– what?"

John sighed, flopping into his chair as he raked his hands through his hair.

"I'd like an explanation myself," he muttered. Irene had been understandably surprised when he'd called, trying to explain the situation over the phone to her without having the slightest clue as to what was going on, backed up only by the vague, slurred instruction Sherlock had given him before passing out altogether.

John hadn't been thrilled with Irene's explanation – he was sure it was all true, but equally sure there was so much more to it than the simple fact that Sherlock didn't always sleep enough even when he needed it, and that she'd provided him with something to help.

Aside from the obvious issue that drugs were illegal and Sherlock had never bothered to mention them, John _knew_ Irene well enough to know he was being kept in the dark. He'd wrangled enough details out of her to at least make sure Sherlock would wake up again, although at least on that front he needn't have really worried. The drugs were dangerous in large quantities or with habitual use, but as an occasional sleep aid, they wouldn't do much.

Some grogginess, dizziness, most likely a headache.

John hoped like hell it was a bad one, and that it lasted for an entire week.

It would serve Sherlock right.

He explained – or tried to explain – the situation to Mary, aware that he wasn't doing a very good job by the continued look of confusion on her face. He understood it all too well, and it wasn't as if he felt like he knew much more about the whole situation than she did.

It had been a long time since John had had to lift someone bodily over his shoulders; he'd been sure he'd left that behind in Afghanistan, particularly when taking a job as a private doctor for a private company in the heart of London.

He _never_ expected to have to do it to Sherlock.

And certainly not in the middle of the night because he'd come damn close to killing his partner.

"Irene Adler?" Mary was asking, cutting through the haze of John's exhausted thoughts. "Wasn't she an actress?"

"She was," John agreed, feeling a stab of resentment that he swallowed hard – it wasn't as if Irene was Sherlock's dealer, keeping him addicted and coming back for more. She had, he reminded himself firmly, actually only been trying to help Sherlock when he needed it. "She's worked for him for– I don't know, I think about ten years now. After she quit acting. Obviously."

"And she's giving him illegal drugs?" Mary asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I wouldn't read too much into that," John sighed, wondering if he was trying to convince Mary or himself.

Mary gave him another wry look, far too incisive for his tired mind.

"What _should_ someone read into that?" she asked.

"Christ," John muttered, burying his face in his hands momentarily. "Who the hell knows? Mary, if I ever understand them, then – well I don't know. It'll probably mean I've gone insane. I probably shouldn't even be surprised that Irene is supplying him with sleeping meds."

She arched an eyebrow, eyes twinkling briefly.

"Well it sounds like a strange relationship, that's for sure."

"That's putting it mildly," John said. "It's _Sherlock_. He'd built on strange relationships."

"Even with you?"

John sat back in his chair, giving his head a small shake.

"I'm the most normal person he knows. Although with me, that's not much of a stretch."

"Oh, I don't know," Mary said. "You've probably got all sorts of fascinating, hidden secrets."

Despite himself, John smiled slightly, glad to see her smiling in response.

"If I do, they're as boring as white bread next to Sherlock's."

"Is he okay? Sherlock, I mean. You haven't just left him at home, have you?"

"No, he's fine. Well, he's breathing and has a pulse. He's sleeping it off – which I suppose is the point, after all. Gabriel's with him, to make sure he _keeps_ breathing."

"And Gabriel is… his business partner, right?"

"Second-in-command, really. And has the dubious honour of being Sherlock's best friend, which, right now, I am more than happy to give to him."

"You should be at home sleeping, too. You're exhausted," Mary said. "I can cancel your appointments."

"No," John said firmly, shaking his head and pushing himself to his feet. "I can handle it." He had no desire to be at home right now, stewing over Sherlock's complete stupidity and chaffing as he waited for his unconscious partner to wake up and explain himself.

And he had a patient he had no intentions of cancelling on, drugged partner or not. Let Sherlock wake up and realize the world didn't revolve around him.

It might even give Sherlock some time to feel guilty about what he'd done.

If it didn't, John had every intention of helping him with that.

The black mood hovering over him lifted as soon as his first patient arrived – it wasn't ideal that Mycroft was there; John was used to the Holmes capacity for observation, but it didn't mean he always appreciated having it directed at him, especially when he knew there was no way he could hide anything.

If Mary had picked up on his lack of sleep immediately, Mycroft had probably known it before he'd even set foot in the door.

Deliberately, John ignored his brother-in-law in favour of his niece, who barrelled into his arms, squealing in delight when he spun her around. Mycroft raised his eyebrows pointedly at the noise, but John ignored that, too, whirling Olivia through the air until they were both breathless and he was off balance.

He staggered a little bit, with deliberate dramatic flare, making his niece laugh again.

"Hmm," John said, putting on a thoughtful face for her. "I seem to be very dizzy – I might need a doctor."

"You _are_ a doctor, Uncle John!" she admonished.

"So I am!" John said, feigning surprise that made her giggle again. "And because I'm a doctor, I think I can say that you, little lady, look perfectly healthy to me."

"She insisted," Mycroft replied, and John gave him a brief nod. He had no qualms about seeing his niece, no matter the circumstances, even if he found himself wishing Angela had been the one to bring Olivia to his office.

"Well then, since you're here, maybe we should check you out," John said, focusing his attention back on his niece. "Make sure everything is where it's supposed to be. You haven't been swapping your arms and legs again, have you?"

"No!" Olivia cried, dissolving into giggles. "I do that to David!"

"Your poor brother," John admonished with a grin. "I hope he's learned to walk on his hands. Here. You can listen to your heart through the stethoscope."

He took Olivia into the office, aware of Mary's amused gaze behind him, and of Mycroft shadowing them. Olivia didn't need a check up – John had given her a routine one the month before, but he indulged her anyway, well aware that he and Mycroft would probably always be willing pawns to her whims. John made sure to test her reflexes thoroughly, grinning when she collapsed into laughter over the automatic responses, and kept up his end of the steady but meandering conversation about everything that popped into her head.

"You are as healthy as a horse," he pronounced when he was finished, fishing a lolly out of the container for her, mostly because it would annoy Mycroft. "And if all horses were as healthy as you, they'd be very horses lucky indeed."

"Thank you," Olivia replied, popping the candy happily into her mouth.

"Tell you what," John said, crouching down in front of the exam table. "Because you're taking such good care of yourself, I think I should take you to the zoo this weekend. _And_ let you and David stay overnight, so we can build a cushion fort and do finger painting. What do you think?"

"Yes!" she agreed, and John cast a glance over his shoulder at Mycroft, who shrugged slightly, as if to say it was John's funeral.

John kept a wry smile to himself; he'd have a fantastic time, and it would drive Sherlock absolutely mad to have his niece and nephew in their flat all weekend, messing everything up and tearing apart the furniture.

He wondered if he could arrange for either child to "accidentally" paint on one of the walls, too.

"Darling," Mycroft said, lifting his daughter down, "why don't you go play in the waiting room for a few minutes? I notice John has some new dinosaurs, probably just for you. I'm sure Mary would be happy to play with you too, if you ask nicely."

Olivia grinned, kissing John briefly on the cheek and dashing off, tempted by the promise of the new toys that John had, in fact, bought just for her. Mycroft closed the door gently behind her, in a way that told John he was making sure his daughter was sufficiently distracted before isolating them.

"She's fine, Mycroft. I'd tell you if she weren't. Unless you've noticed something."

"Oh I have indeed, John, but not with her. Believe me, I am never inclined to be cavalier about the health of anyone in my family. Nor I am in the habit of overlooking any warning signs, no matter how insignificant they may seem. Something as simple as fatigue can, after all, indicate a much more serious problem. So perhaps you'd be so good as to tell me what's happened to my brother."

* * *

"Get out of my flat."

He didn't have to open his eyes or extricate himself from the pillows to know his muffled (and annoyingly, somewhat slurred) words were being directed at his brother. Vaguely, Sherlock wondered if there was some means of harnessing the patronizing, put-upon concern his brother exuded – it could probably power a large swath of London.

Especially on an occasion like this one.

It irritated Sherlock that John so obviously wasn't there; surely, as a doctor, he had a duty to provide medical support?

Not to mention as a partner. Despite the fogginess that lingered, he was certain John had some responsibility toward him when he was unwell. Oh, they'd never done anything as mundane and unnecessary as formal vows, but the spirit was there.

Or rather, it wasn't, because John was not at home.

When Mycroft didn't deign to reply, Sherlock raised his head with a huff, aware that his glare was undermined by his dishevelled hair and rumpled pyjamas – Mycroft, of course, was smartly dressed, poised and polished, evaluating Sherlock with that infuriating older brother expression that made Sherlock feel five years old again.

He ignored the assessment deliberately, checking his phone in the secret hope of a text from John. There were several from Irene, all of which had been read, judging by the fact that they were no longer displaying on his lock screen.

Nothing from Gabriel, which indicated he'd been on baby-sitting duty prior to Mycroft arriving; it annoyed Sherlock even more than John had gone to such lengths to ensure he was supervised, but hadn't stayed himself.

No texts or calls from John.

Sherlock wasn't entirely willing to concede any blame in this yet; John had taken the tablets from Sherlock's medicine cabinet, after all, and hadn't asked what they were before administering them. The melatonin bottle was a ruse, and John had no reason to assume that Irene had provided Sherlock with illegally obtained drugs.

Of course, Sherlock had never mentioned it.

Then again, John had never asked.

"Perhaps you'd like to explain what prompted you to this degree of idiocy?" his brother enquired.

Sherlock huffed a harsh sigh, dragging himself to sitting but refraining from hauling himself out of bed. The way his vision swam with small, silver flashes was a good enough indication that if he got up, he'd be going right back down.

He certainly wasn't going to give his brother the satisfaction.

"Since you've clearly spoken to John, you _know_ I didn't take them by choice."

"That entirely explains why you have illegal narcotics in your home and didn't tell your partner who just happens to be a physician."

"They are _not_ narcotics," Sherlock snapped.

"They are _addictive_ and _dangerous_ , Sherlock! You of all people should know–"

"One time, Mycroft! One bloody time! It was sixteen years ago! Let it go!"

His brother sighed, tightening his fingers around the handle of his umbrella (really, why did he go everywhere with that? It was hardly about to rain indoors), expression shadowed.

"You _do_ have an addictive personality, Sherlock! You know that – you yourself have admitted it more than once–"

"Which is why I do the things I do, Mycroft, and those things notably do not include drugs!" He did drag himself out of bed now, crossing the room in two steps, jaw locked against the dizziness that threatened so he could lean down, nose to nose with his brother, holding Mycroft's gaze hard. "I am _not_ a user. _Look_ at me, Mycroft. You would know! John is a doctor! He would certainly know – and if he knew, then Gabriel would know, and so would Irene, which would mean Angela would know, which would mean you'd know from another source even if you hadn't figured it out! I realize you're losing your form, but even for you, this is slow!"

"How long has it been?" Mycroft snapped.

"What?"

"How long has it been, Sherlock, since you last used these?"

"One year, eleven months, and sixteen days. Seventeen days now."

"You remember the exact date," Mycroft said, softly. "I don't suppose you told John then, either."

"I remember the date _and_ I didn't tell John because John was away! The last time John was away without me was three weeks and two days ago – he and Harry took their mother for a weekend holiday in Scotland. The time before that, four months, one week, and one day ago, for four days for some ridiculous conference in Coventry. The time before that–"

"I get the picture," Mycroft said, holding up one hand.

"I take them when I need them, Mycroft. I did _not_ intend to take them this time."

"How bad has it been?" Mycroft asked. "This time."

Sherlock swallowed the urge to snarl – he needed to sit down, soon, but more than that, he needed coffee, or tea, _anything_ to help him deal with his brother. A cigarette would have been preferable, but he was hardly about to give Mycroft the satisfaction.

To his chagrin, Mycroft followed him into the kitchen and set about making himself a cup of tea while Sherlock tried not to fumble with the coffee, aware that the drug-induced sleep and the lack of food for over twelve hours did nothing to help his coordination.

"This is important, Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "You always think it is."

"What triggered it?" his brother snapped. "There's always something."

"It was a _dream_ , Mycroft. People have them. Nightly."

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed.

He slammed his mug down on the counter, harder than he'd intended, but was gratified by the startled reaction in his brother's eyes, in the way he drew his shoulders back, suddenly and briefly tense.

"Quite _possibly_ because my brother tried to lure me into risking exposure and had the damn _stupidity_ to involve John! Once again, I had no intention of taking them! The last bottle expired before I took _any_ of them, Mycroft, and had John not naively thought he was helping me, this one may well have too! _You_ tried to drag me into your mess – _you_ have no grounds to lecture me on an accident that resulted from _your_ arrogance!"

Mycroft took a slow breath; Sherlock bristled, aware that his brother was trying to find some loophole, some tiny detail, that would let him turn this back around.

"I am awake, alert, and functioning," he snapped before Mycroft could speak. "I'm not in danger of anything, except perhaps fratricide, so get out of my flat, Mycroft. _Now_ ," he snarled when Mycroft made no move to leave.

The china tea cup clinked against its saucer, accompanied by a faint, put-upon sigh.

"Very well, Sherlock. But we will talk about this again."

"No," Sherlock said as Mycroft stepped out of the kitchen. "We most certainly will not."

* * *

As soon as Mycroft was gone, Sherlock strode to the door, bolted all the locks and reset the security system – not that it mattered, because Mycroft wasn't above intimidating the building's security into letting him in. His own authority was outweighed by that of the British government.

It always was.

He sank carefully onto the floor, head between his knees for a few minutes until the dizziness had passed, then dragged himself back to the kitchen to finish fixing himself a coffee and something to eat. With some fuel in his body, he felt somewhat better, although nowhere near his normal self.

Sherlock felt a wave of gratitude towards Gabriel, who had clearly managed this disaster, if the regular, informative emails that now filled his inbox were anything to go by. Of course, that was part of why he paid Gabriel, and he had no doubt there would be some minor fires to put out the next day when he returned to the office, but nothing that was cause for serious alarm. Some clients would be inconvenienced, as well as a couple of what, in another profession, Sherlock might consider his peers. But clients were easy to handle with solicitousness and concessions (one he always made sure seemed costly to him but weren't), and the queens and princes of Britain's underground knew better than to push him too far.

A larger problem lay with Gabriel himself. It would be difficult to explain the situation satisfactorily enough without giving away anything – particularly since Irene was involved. There were things Gabriel didn't know about him, of course, but those were personal or inconsequential. Professional situations were another matter altogether, but Sherlock would have to see to it that this remained, in Gabriel's mind, nothing more than a personal issue.

Silently, Sherlock cursed his brother and the world in general for landing him in this position.

Because then, worst of all, there was John.

No calls, no texts, no emails.

John was guaranteed to be getting information from Mycroft and Gabriel, but still. It stung more than Sherlock wanted to admit, and he knew John had a right to be angry.

Possibly every right to be angry.

It would make it worse if John found out that Sherlock was conscious and all right from other sources.

He pulled out his mobile and typed a quick text message.

_Awake now._

Sherlock's thumb hovered over the send button, hesitant, before deleting it and starting again.

_I'm awake now. And very sorry._

He sent the text, biting his lip as he watched the screen, the relief at seeing John typing making him weak again.

_Try not to kill yourself before I get home. Thanks._

It would hardly have taken an observational genius to pick up on the irritation in the message, but Sherlock scarcely bothered registering it – John had said he was coming home, and implied it would be within a reasonable time frame.

He would gladly take being yelled at over absences and stony silences.

And the leeway before John finished work and returned home would give Sherlock time to think of something – something believable – to explain the situation to John without actually telling him the truth.


	11. Chapter 11

The minutes inched by, long after Sherlock had figured out how to deal with both John and Gabriel. The waiting chafed, but he knew better to than call John, and he wasn't about to rush the confrontation with Gabriel.

He endured a phone call from his mother – far less onerous than Mycroft's imposition and certainly less delicate than his conversation with John was going to be. Sibyl didn't know all of the details of the… incident in Pakistan, of course, but she knew enough and it would have been impossible to hide the extent of his injuries.

Particularly from someone like her.

So Sherlock gritted his teeth and bore it now as he had then, because he did have a responsibility toward her, and she was genuinely concerned about his well-being. There was no patronization here, although Sherlock could tell she disapproved – strongly – of his choice not to tell John about the medication.

Sibyl was fond of John and inclined to side with him occasionally. It annoyed Sherlock that those times were when he was definitely in the wrong.

He might have escaped John's judgment or his mother's individually, but when Sibyl agreed with John, Sherlock had learned that he was beaten.

Still, it wouldn't do to give in too quickly.

So he apologized and reassured her until she was at least satisfied he wasn't about to do anything else so ill advised, and until he was certain she wouldn't interfere beyond the phone call. She wasn't inclined to anyway, but Sherlock knew if Sibyl thought it was serious enough, she would bend the laws of physics to see things put right for him.

Even if it meant inconveniencing him along the way.

That conversation taken care of, Sherlock paced his flat, the silence pressing in on him, tightening inexorably. He should be _working_ , doing _something_ , moving money and goods that technically belonged to other people but were so much more productive and profitable in his possession. Skirting the law, watching as they ran in all the wrong directions, catching a glimpse of him on occasion but never knowing what to do with it. Making himself seen in the upper echelons of the underworld, subtly reinforcing his place at the top – not that many challenged him, not anymore.

Those who hadn't seen the value of allegiance – or at least cooperation – before had come into line after Jim's disappearance. No one knew what or how or where, and Sherlock had never confirmed nor denied anything, but everyone knew he'd played some role in that.

Perhaps _the_ role in that.

No one wanted to know too much, in case knowledge came from experience.

His absence today would be noted – but it had been before, ten years ago. A four-day trip had stretched into nearly three weeks, and almost all of that in silence. His return to London had caused ripples, particularly amongst the select few who were permitted to see him.

Clothing had masked the worst of it, but there had been no concealing the damage done to the exposed parts – face and hands – nor the halting stiffness of his movements.

There was none of that today, of course. He'd been absent for a single day – odd, perhaps, but not so out of the ordinary that anyone was entitled to an explanation.

Anyone but John.

Who was late.

Sherlock's heart lifted – such an oddly accurate description, because that's what it felt like – when his phone chimed with John's ring tone, but the text dashed his hopes.

_Dinner with T &J. Home around 8._

He resisted the urge to curse, to call John and demand the doctor return immediately. On any other night, the text wouldn't have been disruptive; he was likely not to have made it home until that time anyway. If he'd been at work, he wouldn't have noticed the absence, and John would have made an effort to ensure they were home around the same time.

But any other day, John wouldn't have done this for such a pointed reason.

Sherlock paced the flat again, mind and nerves flaring, until the impatience was like an itch crawling over his skin. With a growled curse, he stalked into the living room and liberated his violin from its case.

It wasn't John, but it would have to do.

And often enough, it _was_ enough. There had been days, after his return a decade ago, where it had been near agony not to be able to play, when he craved it as much as he might have craved cocaine had he made a habit of that. Any attempt at the movement he needed for the music sparked even more pain, leaving him dizzy and thwarted. Weak.

Charles had helped, back then; he'd come from Paris for two weeks, the longest they'd ever spent together for reasons that weren't professional. When Sherlock couldn't take someone else's presence in his flat, Charles had left without comment or complaint, returning when the sensation had ebbed and Sherlock needed distraction.

That option was hardly open to him this time, so he played, everything he knew, jumping from piece to unfinished piece, throwing snippets of his own work in with those composed by others, losing himself until there was no "himself", until it was just sound and movement, so swept away in it that Sherlock nearly dropped his violin (irreplaceable, nearly one of a kind now) when John cleared his throat gently and pointedly.

He almost swore at his partner – the surge of anger over the risk to his instrument swallowed _just_ in time, because John's eyes warned him very clearly that this was neither the time nor the place.

Sherlock put his violin away carefully, bristling under John's glare but aware that he had no right to be defensive or angry.

"Figured out what lies you're going to tell me then?" John asked, crossing his arms. Sherlock started, lips parting to protest, but John sighed, holding up a hand. "Save it, Sherlock. Not this time. _Not_ this time. Do you know–"

He cut himself off but Sherlock heard the words John hadn't voiced: _do you know what I went through? Do you have_ any _idea?_

And underneath it all the fear that Sherlock might never have woken up at all.

He took a deep, silent breath, steeling himself.

"You know I don't always sleep well," he said, keeping his tone reasonable – that was a mistake, maybe, given how John's nostrils flared.

"Yes! Yes I bloody well know that, Sherlock! I wake up enough times without you there–"

"I can't change that, John," Sherlock said, smothering another flare of frustration.

"So you decide having Irene supply you with illegal drugs is the best solution?" John spat, taking half a step forward before aborting the movement, hands curling into fists and uncurling again.

"You said it yourself yesterday, it's one thing when I don't need the sleep."

John dropped his head with a harsh sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock waited, tense, chest tight.

"So you go to a _doctor_ , Sherlock! You bloody well have one right here! I live with you! And _don't_ use the excuse that you've only known me three years! You had Mike before that!"

John strode across the room before Sherlock had a chance to reply, jabbing a finger hard into Sherlock's chest, leaving him reeling mentally for balance.

"You can't bloody sleep sometimes so you go to _Irene_ for help? Because she knows so bloody much about this kind of thing? You told me when we first met that you don't run drugs because you don't like it – so what, do you just get your people to do it for you? Give yourself some kind of moral high ground but take advantage of having someone on your payroll who can pass along what you need?"

"No," Sherlock said, dropping the word like a stone. It was true what he'd told John – but beyond that, there was the practicality of keeping himself afloat. Drugs made millions – even billions – but cartels and highly placed dealers were volatile, unpredictable.

Like Jim had been, but interested only in the money, not in the game.

He wasn't about to sink his own ship, and neither were any of his people.

"It's something she employs in the more… recreational side of her business."

John stared at him, disbelieving, before a storm chased itself across his face.

" _Great_ ," he spat. "That's just fucking brilliant, Sherlock! So she's not just giving you drugs, she's giving you drugs she uses on her dominatrix clients? What's next – have you–"

"Don't," Sherlock said softly, snapping the word like a whip, keeping John from saying something in anger that he _would_ regret later.

John stopped, stock still for a moment, some of the tension leeching from his muscles, but none of the burning anger dimming in his eyes.

"Tell me why, Sherlock," he said. "Tell me why her. _Don't_ give me that bloody bollocks about not being able to sleep when you need it! If it was that– if it was _just_ that, you'd have told me! You'd have told Mike! You expect me to believe this is– what? I don't know– pride? No, don't even try that!" he interjected when Sherlock drew a breath to reply. "If you couldn't tell me because of some – _stupid_ idea that you'd somehow be admitting a bloody weakness, you could tell Mike! He wouldn't care! What is this, Sherlock! The truth. Right now."

"I can't tell you."

It _was_ the truth and he hid behind it, holding onto it hard in the face of John's anger.

He'd signed all the documents, classified information. Official secrets.

He was hardly one to hold with the law, but this was different.

This was necessary.

"You can't tell me? _You can't tell_ me _?_ You bloody well better tell me, Sherlock, because _I'm_ the one who had to carry you inside and stayed up half the night to make sure you kept breathing! You do _not_ get to weasel your way out of this one!"

Sherlock wanted to protest, the word sparking a flare of indignation – he'd never weaseled out of anything. Finessed, manipulated, orchestrated, bluffed. All of those. But never anything so base as _weaselling_.

"Not good enough, Sherlock," John said. "Not this time. You tell me. Right now."

No ultimatum, no threats about walking out and not coming back.

No room to manoeuvre, and John couldn't see what that did, couldn't see the burn across his shoulders, down his arms to the tip of each fingers, muscles screaming at the abuse, at being suspended for so long without reprieve.

The memory of rope cut into his wrists, making it hard to breathe.

"I don't care _what_ you're trying to protect, Sherlock. It's not me. You don't get to bloody hide behind that this time – not when you've let me give you the wrong drugs and damn near kill you!"

"I wouldn't have died!" Sherlock retorted. "They're _safe_ , John, in a low dose and taken infrequently! You know that – you knew that as soon as Irene told you what they are! She wouldn't have given me anything that wasn't! She has no more interest in seeing me dead than you!"

" _You're a tricky man to find Mr. Holmes. So glad I'm not late."_

"Oh that's good then," John spat. "I need to know _why_ , Sherlock!"

_He didn't think he could, not now, not after everything that had been done to him – he could barely see straight, the ground shifting in front of his eyes, tiny pebbles jumping into sharp relief before blurring into a sand-coloured sea – but there was no other choice except the final, terminal one, and he wasn't going to choose that here. Not now. Not like this._

" _When I say run,_ run _."_

It had been ten years and Sherlock clung to that decade with an iron grip, putting himself here and now, facing down John's anger, but he could feel the ground shifting beneath him, trying to pull him back.

"I have troubles sleeping, John. It isn't complicated. It isn't some conspiracy. Yes, I don't like to call attention to it – and it's been far less of an issue since I met you. I've dealt with it and the solution works, _when I need it to_. It doesn't _matter_."

John stared at him, gaze boring into Sherlock's, and Sherlock felt something drain away suddenly, but it wasn't the dissolution of tension, it was resignation, an undercurrent of hurt on his partner's features that felt like a vice around Sherlock's heart, and he had to hold himself against it, against all the words, the explanation, that wanted to spill from his lips.

" _They're a kilometer away. Only one. I can't go with you, Mr. Holmes. Can you do it?"_

_The path swam in front of him, half heat shimmer, half dizziness, but he nodded._

_He had to._

_He had no choice._

John sighed, a harsh, abrupt sound, eyes darting away then back again.

"You know what?" he said. "You're right. You're absolutely right. It doesn't matter."

He spun away, such a military movement, marched across the living room toward the hallway leading to the back of the flat.

"I have nightmares."

Sherlock heard himself speaking without having intended to do so, but the words stopped John, who glanced over his shoulder, expression still cold, shuttered.

"Everyone has nightmares, Sherlock. It's normal."

Sherlock shook his head once, briefly. Closed his eyes; he couldn't look at John now, at everything he associated with his own safety and security. Not with the memories right there, at the surface, so ready to choke him.

_Mycroft was coming, Mycroft was coming, Mycroft was coming, Mycroft was coming, Mycroft was coming– he_ had _to be, he always came, he always knew, there was the sound of a sword against a whetstone but it didn't matter because_ Mycroft was coming _–_

" _You're a tricky man to find Mr. Holmes."_

"My work is… dangerous, John. You know that."

"So, what? You have nightmares about going to prison? About having to go straight and be a law-abiding citizen?"

"No," Sherlock replied. It was true – he never dreamt about that, scarcely thought about it, at least not the law-abiding part. Prison _was_ a concern and could become a possibility if he were sloppy, if he let things slide, which was why he didn't, why he stayed sharp. In control.

"What then?" John demanded.

He needed the truth; Sherlock could see that etched into every millimeter of John's body, feel it in the frustrated tension that radiated from him, but he could do nothing more than shake his head again, stopping the words that hovered on his lips.

"Fine," John sighed, turning away again. "Forget it."

"I can't–"

"Yeah, you've said that enough times already."

And how could he say anything else when even if he were permitted to tell John, there were no words that could make sense of all of it? No way to explain it, when so much of it had been agony and desperation?

But it was desperation that drove him now, because there John had thrown a violent distance between them, all anger and resentment and betrayal, and the only way to close that gap was closed to Sherlock already.

"Do whatever you need to, Sherlock," John sighed. "I'm going to shower."

"There was an incident," Sherlock said, words nearly tumbling over themselves to keep John where he was. "In Pakistan. Ten years ago. It was…" He lost the thread, because how to explain what it was?

John stared at him, brown eyes hard, something nearly hidden underneath, something Sherlock didn't have the chance to tease out before the doctor nodded once, curtly.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

It was like being hit by a rogue wave, the shock of it knocking him so far off balance Sherlock was surprised to be still standing, mind gone blank, suspended, as if all the synapses had suddenly lost their connections, leaving him defenseless.

"What?" he managed, trying to tear apart John's expression, to find the answers in all the little hints and tells he was so used to reading. "How do you know?"

"Because," John replied. "Your nightmares don't always wake you."


	12. Chapter 12

The city below her was vibrant, full of life – never quite as busy as London but then again, nowhere near as big. Her vantage point at the window let Irene see hints of that buzzing activity, put her on the edge of it so that being swept up in it would require nothing more than stepping outside of her house and letting the world take notice.

The sounds from outside were muted, kept deliberately faint by the solid structure and made even more so by quiet music in the background. Even now, ten years removed from the creative chaos of the theatre, she was never without the reminders – popular recordings and some more select ones that had been made only for cast members or, occasionally, only for her.

She regarded Dublin absently, mobile phone pressed lightly to her lips. Her career now – as then – kept no set schedule but she scarcely believed she'd be in for a repeat of last night's performance.

She rather hoped never to repeat that again.

Sherlock had texted her some time ago, and it was a relief to know he was awake and alert. Not that the pills could do any lasting damage, not taken so infrequently, but it must have come as a nasty shock before unconsciousness hit him like a hammer.

Much more of a shock for John, she suspected.

She hadn't heard from the doctor, but Irene had sent him a simple and sincere apology. She was inclined to leave it at that for now – her role in this would matter to John, but not as much as Sherlock's, and Irene had no desire to get entangled in their relationship.

She wondered, vaguely, how much Sherlock would tell John and how far that would go to explaining why she'd been providing the sleeping pills to Sherlock the entire time he'd been with John. Naturally – John would think – a doctor would be better placed to make such a decision.

She thought of herself ten years ago, about the decisions she'd made that had led her to where she stood now, contemplating her city at night. Nothing would have changed her choices, of course, but perhaps she should have insisted that Sherlock at least make John aware of the drugs and the issue.

It probably would have meant revealing less to John than Sherlock was sure to have to now.

She sighed, softly, turning the exhalation into a quiet hum in time with the soft music that surrounded her.

A quiet sound shook her from her reverie and Irene refocused, glancing over her shoulder at the bed where Aaron had been tucked up to sleep. Tiny fists waved aimlessly but he met her eyes, giving a delighted infant gurgle. Irene smiled in response, crossing the bedroom to set the phone on the bedside table and settle onto the mattress.

"Hello, my young man," she said, letting Aaron catch one of her fingers in his. "I don't suppose you're going to let Mummy get any sleep tonight?"

He sucked insistently on his pacifier, tightening his grip on her finger briefly before letting go, his hands playing in the air. Irene smoothed a hand over his downy hair then picked him up, earning a delighted sound.

He wasn't fussing, but he'd never really been inclined to, and she hoped he stayed that way. She counted herself lucky to have an easy baby – according to her father, she'd been very demanding, but that hardly surprised her. Occasionally she wondered if Aaron got it from _his_ father; Charles was the definition of unflappable, and Irene couldn't recall a time when she'd seen him genuinely upset or off-balance.

Then again, she couldn't really recall a time when she'd seen him particularly happy about anything either, and Aaron was most definitely a happy baby.

He squirmed a bit in her arms, accidentally smacking her arm, and Irene stood, carrying him into the playroom, laying him on the colourful mat and watching his attention be distracted by the soft arch with dangling toys.

"Perhaps I should have your fathers come and visit again," she said. Aaron's eyes flickered to her then away again as he managed to grasp a crinkly toy. "Or your grandfather. Although maybe not at the same time."

Her father had met Charles and Dominique, and seemed fond of them, but Irene wasn't certain how having all of them under the same roof would go, nor if she could tolerate it very long. She'd grown up an only child and was used to her space – and she knew Charles was the same. Aaron would be too; one was enough for her, and unless she'd seriously misjudged Charles, he would never want to have primary care of a child. Dominique could do it easily – and happily – and maybe he would have pushed for that if Aaron hadn't come along.

Irene suspected that Dominique's sister would have children of her own, probably relatively soon, and she was glad about that. There were advantages to being an only child, and to having only one child, but Irene would be pleased if Aaron had cousins. He was going to spend a fair amount of time in France, and more than enough that he would know and be close to any children Veronique and her partner had. It wouldn't be siblings, but Irene knew Dominique's family well enough to know it would be close.

She paused suddenly, still aware of her son, going through the motions of keeping him entertained as she took half a mental step back to listen to herself. Something flickered at the edges of her mind, something to do with Jim–

Irene blinked, feeling her body relax with sudden realization. Could it really be that simple? Sherlock had been chasing the idea of a child, despite how unlikely they both agreed that was. The idea of Jim as a parent – even just a biological one – was preposterous, but it might not have been so far off the mark.

What if they had the right family but the wrong generation?

She picked Aaron up when he began to fuss and settled into a chair to nurse him, mind still racing down unravelling pathways.

No one had never come up in any enquiry into Jim's past – and Irene had long ago committed all of the information they had on him to memory, able to recall even the smallest details at will. Working for Sherlock in Dublin necessitated it, but she would have done it regardless; his network had been extensive and pervasive, and she'd never had any desire to snap one of its threads unintentionally.

There had never been any indication of a sibling; Jim too had been his parents' only child. They had died under mysterious circumstances – mysterious to the police – shortly after his eighteenth birthday, leaving only him behind.

Unless there _had_ been someone else.

Like a sister.

It wasn't worth contacting Sherlock about, not yet – and certainly not tonight – and there was no need for him to know until and unless she found something concrete. But it gave Irene a starting point, the first real one she'd had since being given the task. She wouldn't be restricted to generic questions and innuendo now, nor would she have to rely so heavily on listening and hoping for the glimmer of a connection.

And if there was a sister out there, it would be far better for her if Irene got to her before anyone else did.


	13. Chapter 13

Gabriel stared absently at himself in the mirror as he finished adjusting his tie – he could have done it completely blind if necessary and did so on a regular basis to keep himself sharp. It had been one of the seemingly random lessons Sherlock had imposed on him just over a decade ago, one that Gabriel had thought pointlessly frustrating at first but understood perfectly now.

In their business, appearance was everything.

Which was why the man who gazed back at him was composed and unconcerned, reflecting none of the anger and the fear over what Sherlock had accidentally done to himself the day before, nor the annoyance that he had to confront that stupidity today. It was also why he put on a smile – a genuine one – when Sandra slipped into the bathroom as he was fastening his cufflinks.

"'Morning, love," he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. She smiled back at him, ruffling his perfectly styled hair, but he didn't mind. It gave him a touch of a messy look that reminded everyone he dealt with that he was much younger than them but still had so much more power.

"Do you have time for breakfast?" Sandra asked. Gabriel thought about it, quickly but thoroughly, weighing all the outcomes carefully.

He had to sort this out with Sherlock – it wasn't just important to him, but to the entire business. Sherlock was the one in control, and had to be seen always having that control.

Appearances.

Then again, as much as Sherlock would hate hearing it, there were some things more important than him.

 _Let him chew on that for a bit_ , Gabriel thought, giving his fiancée another smile.

"I do," he replied. "And I'd love to."

Trips to New York to be fitted for a bespoke, designer-made wedding gown were one thing, but Gabriel was never so far removed from the boy from Bracknell he'd once been – nor the dysfunctional habits entrenched in his family – to forget that the big things had to be held up by little things. So he took the time almost whenever possible and made sure to make time, too, to keep it from being one-sided. It was why he didn't bring it up the idea of having a car take Sandra to work when he kissed her good-bye for the day. It was why he'd offered only once that she could quit her job if she wanted.

Nursing and taking the tube to work were part of who Sandra was, and Gabriel had no desire for her to lose that just because she could be more comfortable.

When she'd gone, he stood inside the entry to their flat, Sam, the dog, sniffing vaguely around his ankles before giving him an expectant look.

"Soon," Gabriel said; the dog-walker was never late and never arrived more than half an hour after they'd both left for the day. If either or both of them were home, they took care of Sam themselves; the firm and conscious decision not to abandon anyone or anything that depended on him was another remnant of his neglected childhood.

Still, delaying wasn't the same as abandoning, and Gabriel fiddled with his phone absently. There was something he'd been needing to look into anyway but hadn't gotten around to since he'd returned from holiday.

Decided, he rang John's office number, waiting for the pleasant female voice on the other end of the line to greet him.

"I need to see Doctor Watson," he said. "Immediately."

"I'm sorry, sir, but Doctor Watson is all booked up this morning – would this afternoon work?"

"He'll make time for me," Gabriel assured her. "Tell him it's Gabriel Mitchell."

There was a brief pause and he could almost hear the nurse, Mary Morstan, making the connection.

"Mister Mitchell, of course. I'll clear his first appointment for you. Is there anything he should know before you come in?"

"It's about my leg." That should garner enough interest; the shooting and the injury were part of his medical record, which Morstan would obviously have access to. It would get John's attention too, and Gabriel suspected it might need actual medical attention anyway. He was dutiful in keeping up the physiotherapy regime, but the pressure change when he travelled by air still bothered the old wound, even now. He might be due for some more physio, or at very least, some peace of mind.

"I'll pass that on," Morstan replied.

"Good," Gabriel said, taking care not to thank her, to present the image he wanted her to see. Appearances. "I'll be there shortly."

* * *

John woke up before his alarm, which wasn't unusual when he had to work; three years on, the army punctuality was still ingrained.

What was unusual was waking up at the same time as Sherlock – normally his partner was up and working well before John got up. Usually not showered and dressed because, as he often pointed out to John, there was no point doing it twice, unnecessarily.

Normally John was all for that, but this morning, he was glad he didn't have to wake up to Sherlock waiting for him, still in his pyjamas or, even worse, fully dressed.

By the slight surprise in Sherlock's eyes, he hadn't expected to sleep this late, and it took him longer than usual – maybe a second – to pull himself together.

"Morning," John said, knowing full well he was capitulating to Sherlock, who would refuse to speak first, but he didn't want to play that stupid game.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, not quite muttering, as he eased himself out of bed. He looked annoyed and John let him. Sherlock knew he didn't really have a reason to be upset and John not pointing it out would just make it all the more obvious, without letting Sherlock feel in any way justified about it.

John had considered sleeping in one of the other bedrooms, or making Sherlock do it, but as angry as he was at Sherlock's casual selfishness and, frankly, downright stupidity over the sleeping drugs, John hadn't wanted to leave him alone with the nightmares.

It was the first time he'd ever admitted having them to John, who had known for over two years now, although it had taken some time to piece together the scant details. He was no expert in languages but serving in Afghanistan at least let him recognize Pakistani Urdu when he heard it.

Which, admittedly, wasn't very often. Sherlock's nightmares didn't always wake the younger man, but John was sure they didn't always wake him, either.

They seemed infrequent but if they'd been bad enough for Sherlock to seek refuge in being awake in the middle of the night, John wasn't quite willing to abandon him to his own devices.

They got ready in an awkward silence, and John was glad that Sherlock didn't hesitate to shower and get dressed. It annoyed him a little – he definitely wasn't in the mood for anything, but Sherlock deserved to feel at least a twinge of rejection. John was glad of Sherlock's lengthy morning routine – after all, a crime lord had to look the part and Sherlock had never been balked at capitalizing on looking stunning – because when his partner was finally ready, John was most of the way through breakfast.

He made Sherlock eat; left to his own devices, Sherlock would opt only for a cup of coffee until midday and the doctor in John disapproved strenuously. He could at least get a couple pieces of toast and some fruit into his partner before Sherlock got annoyed with trivial human necessities, and today there was a slightly sheepish, slightly begrudging air to the way Sherlock ate.

John didn't comment and, despite himself, was surprised when Sherlock did his own washing up, even if it was just a plate and a coffee mug.

He waited until his partner was almost ready go to, lacing up bespoke Italian leather shoes in the entryway to their flat, before pouncing.

"By the way, David and Olivia are spending the weekend."

Sherlock's head snapped up, hands frozen in the midst of tying a tight bow.

"What?"

"David and Olivia are spending the weekend," John repeated, knowing full well Sherlock had heard him perfectly.

"Here?" Sherlock demanded.

"Of course here," John said. "Where else?"

"Anywhere else!"

"They wanted to see their uncles," John said reasonably. "I sorted it out with Mycroft yesterday."

At the mention of his brother's name, Sherlock's nostrils flared.

"I have work, John."

"You're the boss," John pointed out. "I promised Olivia we'd take them to the zoo."

Sherlock stared at him as if he'd grown another head, irritation flaring in his grey eyes. John knew he'd likely lose to work – a full weekend off was rare for Sherlock, but there was no reason John should spend it on his own.

"If you can't manage the time off, I'll take them," John said before Sherlock could get any angrier. "They're still staying here."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, finishing on his shoe and snagging his briefcase as he stood.

John felt a little guilty – surely today wasn't going to be an easy one for him, with an undoubtedly annoyed Gabriel waiting for an explanation, but it didn't stop him from pleasantly wishing Sherlock a good day as his partner stepped out of the flat.

The only reply was an indecipherable look cast by cool grey eyes before the door clicked shut decisively. John waited a moment, then took a slow, deep breath and went to finish getting ready for work.

* * *

Gabriel arrived early enough that John wasn't in yet, but Mary Morstan been settled in for a little while.

It had taken some thought on the way over as to who, precisely, she would see when he arrived – there were so many different ways for Gabriel to play himself, each befitting different situations. She was, after all, an unknown entity to him, but Sherlock had personally done her final vetting and Gabriel knew his boss would have been very thorough, particularly because she was working with John.

Gabriel trusted Sherlock's judgment with other people, even if he didn't entirely trust Sherlock's judgment for his own life right now.

And he had no real reason to be suspicious of Morstan. Sherlock had a significant blind spot when it came to John, but not when it came to John's safety.

Still, it never hurt to be too careful.

As John's nurse, Morstan would have access to a substantial amount of confidential information about all of them, but she wouldn't be called in an emergency the way John would, especially not an emergency that needed to be kept from the attention of the police. And confidential medical information could so easily be doctored, as Gabriel knew full well.

This was nothing more than a follow-up, a confirmation of what Sherlock had already investigated.

So Gabriel was nothing more than himself – with a slight, nearly imperceptible limp – greeting her with a smile and a warm "good morning".

"I'm afraid Doctor Watson's not in just yet," Morstan said, looking genuinely apologetic. "I was just about to put the kettle on. Would you like a tea?"

"Thank you," Gabriel replied, accepting the cup with real gratitude a few minutes later. "Harder to get a decent cup of tea in New York. Excellent coffee, though."

"I remember that," Morstan said. "I went after uni – although I suspect my tastes were less sophisticated then."

Gabriel gave her a smile and a nod, although he couldn't really relate; he'd been working for Sherlock his entire adult life, which had never left him with the need – or the opportunity, really – to have cheaper tastes.

"I hear congratulations are in order," she commented. "On your wedding. Doctor Watson mentioned it the other day."

"Thank you," Gabriel replied. "We're both looking forward to it." He paused, giving himself a natural break to change the subject. "How are you finding the job? Are we treating you well enough?"

"Absolutely," Morstan said with a smile. "Doctor Watson is wonderful to work for – although his record keeping skills are somewhat lacking."

"I'm not surprised. He's lucky to have you. I don't think he ever quite got the hang of being his own nurse. If there's ever anything you need, please feel free to come to me. Technically I'm John's boss."

"Oh," Morstan said. "I didn't know that."

"It avoids some professional entanglements, with him being Mister Holmes' partner."

"That makes sense," Morstan agreed, then glanced away as the door was pushed open and John stepped in.

"Morning, Mary," he greeted, giving her a smile that widened slightly when he glanced at Gabriel. "Morning, Gabe."

Morstan looked slightly surprised at the casual familiarity, and Gabriel supposed it might look odd, from an outsider's perspective, to be so informal with someone in his position. It had never struck him as strange, if only because of why John had come to be his physician and how quickly John had become an integral part of Sherlock's life.

"Good morning, John," he replied.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll see you."

John disappeared into his office, leaving Gabriel to chat with Morstan about inconsequential things: the weather, the latest train strike, a bit more about New York. When John poked his head back out, Gabriel rose, feeling a genuine twinge in his knee.

"Knee bothering you?" John asked when he closed the door, gesturing to the exam bed. Gabriel took the offered seat and rolled up his trousers enough for John to get a decent look at it. The scars – both from the bullet and from the surgery – had long since faded from the initial angry red to white. Sherlock had tried, a few times, to convince him to get cosmetic surgery, but Gabriel couldn't see the point. Anyone who actually saw the scars didn't care and the whole event hadn't had much of an impact on him personally.

By unspoken agreement, they kept their conversation away from the incident with Sherlock; Gabriel hadn't spoken to his boss yet, and had no desire to become embroiled in their personal relationship. He could still see the toll it had taken on John though – the doctor looked more tired than he ought to, the light in his eyes and the sincerity of his smiles both weaker.

That didn't help the irritation Gabriel felt toward Sherlock, but he calmed that with a deep, slow breath, nodding along to John's comments about his knee. Whatever he was going to say to Sherlock, it was going to be about the actual incident and their business, nothing more.

John pronounced him probably all right and prescribed preventative measures – heat and more stretches – for the meantime, advising Gabriel to keep track of it and come back if it got worse. Gabriel was happy to avoid physiotherapy for the time being, and hopefully altogether, particularly right now. With work and the wedding, he hardly had time to pile more onto his plate.

"Thanks, John," he said, fixing his trouser cuff and sliding off the bed.

"Call me if you have any problems," John replied.

"I will," Gabriel promised.

"Uh, Gabe," John said as Gabriel reached the door, one hand on the handle. He paused, turning back. "Can I borrow your dog for the weekend?"

"My dog?" Gabriel echoed, shooting John a puzzled look. "Why?"

"Olivia and David are staying the weekend, and I thought they might enjoy it. No way Mycroft's ever going to let them get a pet that doesn't need a cage or a tank."

Gabriel raised his eyebrows, almost enquiring if Sherlock was all right with this before realizing his boss probably had no idea John was even asking. He thought it over briefly; he'd decided not to involved in this, but letting John watch Sam for the weekend wasn't really getting involved – it was just doing a favour to a friend.

Hardly his fault if another friend disliked it.

After all, Sherlock hadn't requested not to have the dog on the weekend.

"Let me check with Sandra, but it should be fine," he replied, shooting John a wicked grin. "I'll let you know."

John smiled back, the first full smile Gabriel had seen that morning.

"Great," he said. "Thanks."

* * *

In the car on the way to the office, Gabriel replayed the entire conversation, slowly, in his mind – not the one he'd had with John, but the one with Morstan. On the surface, it appeared innocuous and he knew full well it might be. There was nothing unusual about the topics, nor about anything she'd said.

Idly, he considered introducing her to Sandra and seeing what his fiancée thought – it wasn't that they were both nurses, but that Sandra was an excellent judge of character.

But so was he; Sherlock had seen to that training and neither of them would have lasted long in their business if they weren't.

It was nothing he could put his finger on, but Gabriel had long ago learned to pay attention to that instinct. He wasn't entirely sure he liked her, and he wasn't entirely sure he trusted her.

It might be nothing, but it was worth finding out. If she turned out to be everything she said she was, then he'd done his job and satisfied himself that he and his people were secure.

* * *

Mary watched the door close behind Gabriel Mitchell and waited the requisite few minutes until John was ready before sending the next patient in.

When she was alone in the room again, she turned her attention away from the computer monitor without ever moving her gaze, and gave herself time to chase her thoughts.

She needed to get close to John, to get that way into Sherlock Holmes' life, but she needed to keep either of them from seeing it that way.

It would be tricky; her one interaction with Holmes so far was enough to know that he was serious – even obsessive – about John's safety. He hadn't said a single thing about it, but making the time to come into John's office to fetch the doctor himself spoke volumes.

John was obviously Sherlock's single most prized possession.

But there were others, in a very close second.

Gabriel Mitchell was unquestionably one of those.

He didn't know it, but he'd make an excellent pressure point.

And, given that he'd been shot, Mary doubted very much it would be difficult to find some way of applying pressure to him.

All she needed was a small wedge, a way to divert Holmes' attention somewhere else, and now she had it.

Alone in the waiting room, Mary allowed herself a small smile and a moment to feel pleased with the opportunity Mitchell had unknowingly given her.


	14. Chapter 14

The faint but persistent headache that clung to the edges of Sherlock's skull was not at all made better when Gerald opened the car door smoothly for him, revealing his head of security sat comfortably in the back seat. Cheryl raised her gaze from her phone to give him a look that would have passed for casual disinterest if anyone else had been on the receiving end – but Sherlock read all of the warning and judgment in it very clearly.

He repressed a sigh, sliding in beside her, the quiet click of the door closing making him feel momentarily trapped. A slow breath deliberately expelled that sensation – he couldn't afford anything that reminded him of the incident.

He wasn't particularly surprised to find Cheryl waiting for him, although had hoped to forego any confrontation – not matter how indirect – until he'd arrived at the office.

Cheryl was well armed, no more than she normally was, but it sat poorly with him this morning. It was more difficult to shrug off than the confinement to the back of the car, despite how accustomed Sherlock was to her defensive presence. She was a near constant companion, so often unnoticed and unnoticeable, even if she was rarely so directly at his side.

And she had invested a great deal to ensure that Sherlock could take care of himself when she wasn't with him.

Which was, he suspected, why she was there that morning.

But she said nothing, turning back to her phone to occupy her during the short commute, and then following him up to his office, a silent shadow he couldn't shake.

Tina was there when they arrived, her momentary surprise at seeing Sherlock fading into sharp scrutiny as her eyes raked over his face, then down the rest of his body. She gave him a brief warning glare that Sherlock ignored outwardly, smoothing over the inward cringe of guilt. Despite being younger than him by a few years, Tina was the oldest of three and had evidently had the same practice with her siblings as Mycroft had had with him.

Sherlock wondered if she knew that her disapproval mirrored Mycroft's – probably not, although he doubted it would surprise her.

Still, the silent warning appeared to be enough for her, and she resumed her brisk, professional efficiency, albeit with slightly less of a sunny disposition. Tea and coffee were expertly made and delivered promptly, enough for two, with Cheryl ensconced in his office.

His head of security still hadn't spoken, save to thank Tina for the tea, and was making a deliberate point of continuing with whatever work she was doing on her phone. Gabriel's prominent absence was undoubtedly the reason for her silence – Sherlock didn't even bother to entertain the idea that he might get away with speaking to each of them individually.

He didn't know where Gabriel was, but it scarcely mattered. The younger man wasn't about to let this slide – as much as Sherlock would prefer not to have the necessary conversation, he also wouldn't tolerate Gabriel avoiding the confrontation. He'd trained Gabriel better than that, and if something as significant (although tiresome) as this slipped past, it would be ruinous.

Keeping the business running smoothly, without any interference from their specialized competitors or from the law, was an enterprise Sherlock couldn't – and didn't – undertake on his own.

Still, it annoyed Sherlock this needed to happen at all. If John had stayed out of his medicine cabinet, this discussion would never have to take place. He'd had no intentions of resorting to the sleep aids Irene had provided – at least not then, and he would have taken them discretely had he needed them, after John had gone to sleep and while in bed, so it would have appeared the next morning that he'd had nothing more unusual than a good night's sleep.

With an inward sigh, Sherlock wondered if he still might get away with using them without notice. If he were lucky, the nightmares would abate now, but drawing attention to them sometimes made them worse. John would be on the lookout, which was irksome.

There had to be some way around it he decided as his computer finished booting up. There always was.

At the moment, he didn't have the luxury of exploring those possibilities. A day of inactivity was costly when unplanned and he'd missed two or three important meetings the day before, with people who were not easily put off. One of them, at least, had the equanimity to deal with Gabriel if required, but she was a rare breed.

The two others were paranoid idiots as far as Sherlock was concerned; privileged men with significant problems chasing them who had paid hefty sums to make those problems disappear. One of them was more inclined to be persuaded to patience than the other, and Sherlock suspected he would ultimately have to silence the more nervous one permanently. Probably sooner rather than later.

Without involving the police or any publicity, of course – he scarcely wanted to tarnish his reputation over one spoiled and rather stupid man.

Whom, by the looks of it, he was meeting that afternoon. It would be tedious, but Sherlock suspected the wife would be in attendance, which made things so much easier. She was far more practical than the husband she'd been saddled with and, unless Sherlock was very much missing the mark (which he never did), she wouldn't be put out by the loss of her husband's companionship.

He made a mental note to have Cheryl check into some options; it wouldn't do to discuss it before the meeting and therefore without all the facts and he was damned if he was going to give into her on-going silence.

The silence persisted for almost an hour before Gabriel deigned to arrive, announcing himself with a perfunctory knock before stepping into Sherlock's office, showing no surprised at Cheryl's presence.

The slight, nearly imperceptible limp, and the faintest creasing on the lower right leg of his trousers were enough to announce the reason for his delay; his leg was bothering him – albeit not much – and he'd been to see John about it.

Sherlock found himself annoyed with that development; it was clear from Gabriel's expression and posture he hadn't spoken to John about the event, but it felt like a sneak attack nonetheless.

Surely Sherlock's relationship with John was no one else's business.

Just like his sleeping patterns should be.

Gabriel accepted a fresh cup of tea from Tina, who disappeared with remarkable efficiency, even for her. He settled onto the plush leather sofa across from the one Cheryl was occupying, leaving both chairs open for Sherlock, who remained firmly behind his desk. Gabriel let the silence stretch for a moment, crossing his bad leg over his good, giving Sherlock an inscrutable look over his tea cup.

"Explain," he said. "All of it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, imposing his own brief silence on them before replying.

"There isn't anything to explain." Two sets of impassive eyes gazed levelly back at him, the irritation almost entirely hidden, but not quite. Sherlock interlaced his fingers, resting his hands on his desk. "Neither of you are unaware of my sleeping patterns." He shrugged slightly, as if unconcerned. "There are times when I need sleep but can't get it. For those times, I have a solution. There's nothing else to it."

"I'd believe that," Gabriel said, leaning forward to set his tea cup and saucer on the low table that stood between the sofas and the chairs, "if that explanation didn't make you sound like a complete and utter idiot."

Sherlock felt his nostrils flare involuntarily and rebuked himself sharply for the unwanted reaction. Gabriel hadn't missed it and nor had Cheryl, who raised an eyebrow pointedly at him.

"If it were that simple, you would have gone through proper channels, not resorted to having Irene provide you with illegal drugs. And, at very least, you would have told Cheryl about them, because it is her actual job to make sure you don't come to any harm – which I'm sure is made much more difficult when you are so brazenly irresponsible with your own damn health. Not to mention you should have told John. And me."

"My personal life is not your business," Sherlock said, more bite in his voice than he would have preferred.

"It is when it interferes with _our_ business," Gabriel replied. "And when it's impacted by our business. This isn't about lack of sleep, Sherlock. This is about Pakistan."

He shouldn't have been surprised; Gabriel had clearly spoken to Mycroft, and no doubt had received some information from John the day before, even if they hadn't spoken about the events after Sherlock had woken up.

He sighed again, rubbing his eyes with one hand, giving the appearance of weariness that was only partly feigned. Truthfully, Gabriel's insight made directing the conversation that much easier.

"Yes," he said bluntly. "It is." He caught the flicker of surprise in Gabriel's eyes, but Cheryl was outwardly unmoved by the unexpected admission.

"This time," Sherlock amended, letting his gaze flicker between the two of them.

"Most times," Gabriel said, and Sherlock conceded with a slight nod; it had been something of a guess, based on his younger associate's tone, and he saw no reason to lie.

"It isn't common now, and it's certainly not the only reason I don't sleep." That was true, although nearly a lie by degrees – occasionally sleep was elusive just for the sake of being elusive, but Sherlock had never resorted to the drugs Irene had provided in those cases. Particularly not since John had come along and he could wake the doctor up to have any number of pleasant things done to him.

"It was this time," Cheryl commented.

"It was," Sherlock agreed. "Although you're both well aware that I had no intention of taking anything for it. It happens occasionally, but it's been ten years. I'm not inclined to worry about it unduly. Nor should you."

"My entire job is ensuring you stay alive," Cheryl said, and Sherlock heard the sharp undercurrent in her voice, saw it briefly in her eyes. "I _will_ worry about it when you're keeping illegally obtained medication and using it without any oversight, _especially_ when it causes you to collapse in the middle of the night."

"Admittedly, an lapse in–"

"And when this illegally obtained medication comes from one of our own," Gabriel interjected. "And you neglect to mention it to either of us."

"This isn't–"

"Sherlock, I can't do my job if you choose not to keep me informed of _everything_ that could potentially harm you," Cheryl interrupted, the warning glare enough to keep Sherlock from attempting to speak. "Nor can Gabriel. If you can't sleep, we don't need to know. If you can't sleep without assistance, we do."

Sherlock drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"My life is not open to your scrutiny," he replied.

"It is," Gabriel countered, "so that it won't be to the police."

"This was an accident," Sherlock said, keeping his voice level with some effort that he ensured didn't show. "One I have no intention of repeating and – I should point out – one that never happened when I administered the dose myself."

"And one that wouldn't have happened if you'd told John," Gabriel said.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. That was true, after all.

It didn't change the fact that he'd never intended to tell John at all.

"Or if you'd seen an actual doctor about this," Gabriel added. "How long has Irene been giving you drugs?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the tedious accusation – Irene was hardly a dealer, after all, let alone _his_ dealer.

"Eight years," he lied.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows, Cheryl mirroring his expression, and Sherlock allowed himself a small, put-upon sigh.

"Do you imagine Pakistan was information to which she was privy immediately?" Sherlock enquired, putting a cool note into his voice.

"You did hire her not long afterwards," Gabriel pointed out.

"Six months afterwards," Sherlock said sternly. "She sought out our assistance, I needed a new Irish lieutenant. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Not dissimilar to a young man who was being watched by Interpol when I met him, but who had no desire to join their ranks."

Gabriel scowled slightly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"So, what?" he asked. "You just happened to mention you can't sleep sometimes?"

"It's not a secret," Sherlock sighed. "And yes, I did. I make it a habit of not hiring stupid people. It was hardly difficult for her to come to the obvious conclusion. She offered them to me – I saw no harm in accepting. It seemed like an agreeable solution."

"What did you do in the intervening two years?" Gabriel asked.

"Dealt with it," Sherlock replied coolly. "As I said, her offer seemed like an agreeable solution."

_The faint click of plastic against the table's surface cut through the haze of semi-consciousness and Sherlock blinked his eyes open, managing to restrain a groan at the ache that blossomed with even that small movement. Three weeks had softened some of the bruises but seemed to have done little else; everything still hurt, mending ribs protesting each deep breath, wrists refusing to abandon the memory of ropes cutting into his skin, the muscles across his shoulders still inflamed from days of constant tension._

_Irene sat down across from him, smoothing her flight attendant's skirt with practiced efficiency, expression serious except for the light in her dark eyes._

_He would, he thought, find out how she'd managed this, to be on the crew for this secure, and very secret, flight without Mycroft knowing._

_How she'd found out about it in the first place._

_Where she'd been since leaving him – admittedly not by choice – in the mountains to make that interminable one-kilometer walk to the small American military detachment who were now undoubtedly under the strictest of orders not to discuss his rescue or his unexpected presence._

_He would find out – in time. When the appreciation for her deception was more than drugged amusement, when each thought wasn't wrestled out from behind a haze of pain medication and agony just barely kept in check._

_The bottle slid across the table, propelled by one finger, perfectly shaped nail painted a vivid red._

Astonishing _, Sherlock thought, but wasn't entirely sure why._

" _What is it?" he managed – it was difficult to keep his words clear, but he made a point of doing so. Appearances were everything and right now, his appearance was not one to inspire confidence._

" _It will help you sleep," she replied. "Particularly when you don't want to dream."_

" _I don't dream now," he said. Her lips twitched into a small smile; her lipstick, he noted, was the same colour as her nails._

" _You won't always be on morphine, Mister Holmes. Believe me, you will need this. Not to worry; I have no intention of jeopardizing my investment. It's perfectly safe. I've used it on loads of my friends."_

Gabriel sighed, eyes flickering to Cheryl who returned his gaze with an inscrutable look.

"What does she know?" Gabriel asked. "About Pakistan."

"Less than you," Sherlock replied. Another lie, but one that came easier from a decade of polished practice. "As much as she needs to."

"We aren't on a need-to-know basis, Sherlock," Cheryl said. "We need to know everything."

"Well," Sherlock said crisply, making sure his tone boarded on annoyed, "you know about this now – and you certainly know John won't allow me to take the medication again, not without his permission and not without him administering it. If at all."

"And Pakistan?" Gabriel asked.

"Do you imagine there is _anything_ about Pakistan I haven't shared with you?" Sherlock demanded, letting his voice drop to icy.

Gabriel sat back with a sigh, sharing another glance with Cheryl, and Sherlock studiously ignored the flare of guilt. Any deception was a decade old and necessary, imposed on him by an authority he had never answered to in any other instance and whom he hoped never to answer to again.

If nothing else, the way the incident had played out at least ensured Mycroft wouldn't hold Sherlock's assistance over him for the rest of his life.

He'd managed to get out of the bloody knighthood it had almost earned him, too, but it had been a near miss.

"You didn't share this," Cheryl pointed out.

"And now I have," Sherlock replied curtly. "Regardless of whether or not I wanted to, you now know, and are free to do whatever you see fit with that information. But if you imagine this is the most important task facing us today, I invite you to re-evaluate your priorities. We have work to do. _All_ of us _,_ " he added, casting a pointed glance at Cheryl.

She and Gabriel kept him pinned a moment longer then rose in unison, as if they'd planned it. Sherlock stayed seated, watching them with feigned equanimity as they made their way to the door, unsurprised when Gabriel lingered, closing them in again. His second crossed the room, gripping the back of the chair that faced Sherlock's desk, leaning in slightly.

"That," Gabriel said, the control gone from his voice, replaced by something verging on vehemence, "was really, really bloody stupid, Sherlock. _Don't_ do it again."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, half wondering if Gabriel knew that when he was really angry – and only ever with Sherlock alone – that hints of his childhood accent came back, little ragged chips in the elegance he'd cultivated over the last decade.

He refrained from pointing it out, rightly deducing it would earn him only further ire.

"I am sorry," Sherlock offered, mostly sincere.

"Sorry you got caught, I'd believe," Gabriel shot back, but some of the banked fire had vanished from his tone.

"And for neglecting to tell you," Sherlock said. It was only partly a lie. "It hardly seemed important."

"Everything is important," Gabriel replied, "to someone."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Among the many things at which Gabriel excelled, throwing Sherlock's own lessons back at him was often near the top of the list.

"See to it that it isn't," Sherlock said. "To anyone."

"I will," Gabriel promised. "But when it comes to John, you're on your own."

* * *

Sherlock waited an appropriate amount of time – just over two hours – before clearing a small space in his schedule without alerting anyone to the change. It was the work of a few minutes to ensure that his mobile line and the one he was dialling were secure – that knowledge and technology hadn't come cheap, but had been sufficiently modified that if the seller had been interested in hacking in, he would have found himself sorely disappointed (and the subject of intense police scrutiny in very short order).

Irene answered after her customary two rings.

"I trust you're well," she said.

"Well enough," Sherlock replied; the lingering headache had abated, losing its battle to tea and ibuprofen.

"And John?"

"Will be fine." The question made him uncomfortable, the answer even more so, reminding him of the frustrating complications that were impossible to avoid now.

Things had been so much simpler before John, but Sherlock found even the idea of going back made it difficult to breathe.

John's anger he could handle.

John's absence he could not.

"Have you had to make any changes?" Irene enquired, redirecting the conversation smoothly from the personal.

"No," Sherlock replied. "The story remains the same."

"Thank you," she replied. It struck Sherlock as odd that she would thank him – granted, it was for the information, but the idea that she had any gratitude to show when it came to this was absurd.

He said nothing.

"Do take care of yourself," Irene said. "John, too."

"I will," Sherlock promised. He rung off and stood behind his desk, gazing absently over the sprawling city for a moment before setting his mobile and the conversation aside to return to work.


	15. Chapter 15

"Do you really need all of that?"

Mycroft settled on the edge of his son's bed, glancing briefly at the carefully folded clothing surrounding the empty overnight bag, returning David's pointed look with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes," David replied in a tone that suggested Mycroft was a bit thick for not understanding the intricacies of packing for a weekend away. "Pyjamas and socks for each night. Trousers for Saturday and for Sunday, in case one pair gets dirty. Uncle John did say he was taking us to the zoo."

"So he did," Mycroft agreed.

"Two shirts and a jumper in case it gets cold at the zoo."

"What's the second jumper for?" Mycroft asked.

"In case the first one gets dirty," David replied, rolling his eyes. "Socks and pants for each day and an extra pair just in case."

"You do know your uncles have a washer and a dryer and the capacity to use them?" Mycroft enquired. _Or at least John does,_ he added to himself – in a pinch, Sherlock would probably opt to replace his entire wardrobe rather than bother doing something as menial as chores.

Not that Mycroft blamed him. Some things were simply tedious beyond belief.

"They could be broken," David pointed out. "It's better to be prepared."

"Very true," Mycroft agreed, lacing his fingers together and resting his elbows on his knees. Although Sherlock would never consent to having something not working in his flat for longer than it took to have it repaired or replaced, he could find no fault with David's inclination towards thoroughness.

In that respect, like so many others, he was entirely his parents' son. Mycroft despised what others called spontaneity – it smacked of laziness and ignorance. So much of life couldn't be controlled; the rest _had_ to be planned for, anticipated, if only in order to balance it out.

A well-considered position was always a position of power, and he had no desire to be caught floundering or to simply see where circumstances took him. Far better to be the one directing those circumstances. It was much more likely to end agreeably for him.

And too often, an agreeable outcome was difficult – if not nearly impossible – to orchestrate. People were irritatingly inconsistent variables, prone to pursing whims or clinging to ignorance or stubborn habit. He knew those vagaries to be true of himself on occasion – he'd _never_ counted on meeting Angela or her impact on his life, and if someone had told his younger self he'd agree to marriage and children, he'd have raised an eyebrow and very pointedly refused to comment.

Still, one had to adapt as plans changed and Mycroft knew the value in that as much as he knew the value in being prepared.

The first people to adapt were, after all, the ones to direct the situation.

The problem there lay in being among the first. In his position, it usually was not difficult, but there were times – and places – where his influence was weaker. Not often, but often enough that he knew firsthand how dangerous it really was to be exposed, without recourse.

He tried not to think about it, because dwelling on events that had been long settled was fruitless, but like Angela, Sherlock's existence often flew in the face of Mycroft's best laid plans.

And there was no denying that Pakistan was, to some extent, his fault.

He'd sent his brother in armed with everything – knowledge, contacts, protection – but it hadn't been enough. Someone else had had more of those things, enough to see through the guise of Sherlock's business, to pluck him from his small, discrete detail, to isolate him from everyone watching or searching as they tried to wrest the truth from him.

It hadn't worked, but Mycroft wasn't so blind as to ascribe the outcome to miracles. Sherlock would have given up his life before giving up the information, and the only reason he hadn't had to make that choice was Irene Adler.

That had bothered Mycroft for quite some time, but not nearly as much as it had to fly to Afghanistan on short notice, to make the long walk through the cordoned off wing of a British field hospital surrounded by six armed and imposing men, to see his baby brother, wrapped in bandages and medical tubes, barely recognizable for all the violence that had been inflicted upon him.

"What shoes have you chosen?" Mycroft asked as David rearranged the small piles of clothing pensively.

"Trainers," David said decisively, giving a brief nod that was far too reminiscent of his uncle. By some quirk of genetics, David looked more like Sherlock than anyone else – which was, of course, to say that he looked Sibyl, but the resemblance to Sherlock was more apparent to Mycroft, who remembered his brother very well as a child.

"Very practical," Mycroft commented, but his son looked troubled.

"You never wear them," David pointed out.

"True," Mycroft agreed, years of political finesse keeping his voice neutral despite the shudder that ran up his spine; even trying to imagine a situation that might require him to wear something so suggestive of leg work was distressing. "But you don't wear suits."

"I do at school," David countered. He paused, and Mycroft refrained from filling the silence. "But it's the weekend, so it's all right."

"It is indeed," Mycroft agreed, and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the twinges and stiffness that spoke to him of encroaching middle age – it would hardly do to give into his body's demands so readily. "You'll need your toothbrush."

"I know," David sighed, rolling his eyes at his father's obvious statement. "I'm not a little kid."

"Indeed you aren't," Mycroft agreed. "However, we do have one in the house, and I should see to it that she's as ready as you are."

David raised his eyebrows, the expression of cynical surprise far too old for his young face.

"I promised your mother," Mycroft said, unable to stop the soft sigh that slipped into his voice. "And against her, there are always some battles even I cannot win."

* * *

 There was a troubled undercurrent in Dublin, one that bubbled well below the level on which most people lived their lives, leaving them unaware and, if they were lucky, untouched.

Irene had felt it before, more than once, and the worst time had teetered on the edge of a battle, the balance of power suddenly shattered, creating a vacuum of uncertainty and opportunity, where one wrong step could have plunged the city's underworld into chaos, dragging the rest of Dublin with it.

The police had felt it, but like a body became aware of a virus – only after the infection had taken hold, and scrambling to offset something they couldn't quite identify.

The lower rungs of the criminal classes had felt it too, and seized the opportunity for whatever gains they could make. It hadn't amounted to much – it never really did – but the sudden flexing of muscle from below and the lack of directive from above had frozen the upper echelons, leaving them caught between factions who saw a chance to grasp power and those who were poised to flee, taking as much with them as they could and leaving everything else to ashes.

Irene had walked into that maelstrom with all of her accumulated power behind her, filling the void left in the wake of Jim's fall.

There had been protests and challenges of course – although not many, because people tended to be attached to the idea of having their heads attached to the rest of their bodies, and even just the rumours of her other profession were often enough.

She'd never killed a personal client of course, but a number of her clients were cheerful and inventive liars who happily spread small exaggerations in hushed voices, all for the promise of preferential treatment.

Her reputation was backed more by fact than rumour, though, and those who had tried to challenge her had often found themselves very suddenly bereft of friends or allies, most of whom were happy to secure a place in the new order of things.

It kept prying eyes away from their deals and their money, and kept the police away from their doors.

It hadn't been simple but it had been necessary, and when the dust had settled, after Sherlock had walked away from a confrontation on a hospital rooftop in London, Dublin was no longer split, no longer at the mercurial mercy of a madman.

It was hers.

She'd known the moment it had been settled, a sudden certainty that there was only one person at the top.

It had been delicate at first, rebuilding and keeping a new balance, but the longer it worked, the more comfortable everyone became, until her place was as secure as it could ever be. Diligence wasn't a choice – there was no room for slipping here, but the benefit of being at the top was the number of people below her propping her up.

The status quo worked not only in her favour, but for so many people who didn't want to repeat life under Jim Moriarty or relive the dangerous days after his downfall.

Which was why she was keeping a sharp eye on the unrest now – unrest she had caused herself when she'd brought his name back, casting around for information. They were small ripples, fairly easily smoothed over, but the unease required consistent reassurance.

Moriarty was never coming back; Irene knew that for certain, even if everyone else had only her word on it.

The specter of him still loomed large enough that her promise might not always seem sufficient.

The disruption was unfortunate, but unavoidable.

Jim had been sloppy, maybe deliberately so, and left a loose end, this unknown woman who, if she were lucky, wouldn't know who he was or that she meant anything to him.

If she were lucky.

If they were all so lucky.

Irene considered it unlikely that this woman was one of Jim's people or had followed a similar career path; that would almost certainly have been uncovered by now, intentionally or otherwise. They had been thorough in snapping and reweaving Moriarty's old webs, and Jim had been an object of close enough scrutiny even before Bart's that one of them would have picked up on something if _she_ had been part of his network.

But wherever she was and whatever she was doing, they needed to know.

If someone else found her first, it would be too easy to turn Jim's corrupted power into their own.

Irene had snatched Sherlock from death to ensure she had the means to begin the new life she'd needed back then, and she had spent the decade since securing herself.

She had no intention of letting someone else shake that foundation.

Especially not now.

If anyone had thought having a child would weaken her position or distract her enough to steal some advantage, she was certain they were sorely disappointed.

Perhaps more disappointed were her personal clients – Aaron's birth had necessitated she step back from that business for a while. The physical reasons weren't the most compelling but certainly played a part. There were ways around those, if she'd wanted to take them, but her body was as much a weapon in her arsenal as was her mind, and she wanted to ensure it stayed sharp.

The time she was giving to Aaron was also time for herself; it was simple enough to do the bulk of her work for Sherlock from her office at home, leaving her free to care for her son and relying on those she trusted in Dublin to do what legwork she had no desire to do right now.

Her private clients never came here, of course, but that didn't stop the gifts from arriving. Everyone wanted to be first on her list when she returned, and she'd been mulling it over more and more lately, a clear sign that she was nearly ready to step back into that role. She could feel it, too, a faint unease lingering just beneath her skin, desires that wanted to be satisfied, like a mild itch she knew she'd have to scratch soon.

So it didn't surprise her when Alexander knocked on her office door, slipping in at her quiet summons. Aaron had fallen asleep while nursing and Irene hadn't moved him, less for fear of waking him than from the simple desire to hold him and watch his sleeping face, to marvel again at the instinct to clutch her finger tightly in a tiny fist, even when he wasn't conscious.

"Thank you," Irene murmured as Alexander set the slim crystal vase on the table next to her. It contained a single red rose in the early stages of blooming, petals still so tightly contained they looked almost black. A small card had been attached to the stem; Irene slipped it open with a thumb and forefinger, recognizing a favoured client's handwriting immediately, a neat, precise scrawl with a hint of a foreign flourish.

_Tá sí le fáil_

She might have smiled at the Irish if the message itself hadn't sent a grounding shock through her.

_She is found_

A faint sigh and a gurgle brought Irene back to reality, and she glanced down to see Aaron blinking his eyes open, tiny hands waving randomly as he focused on her.

"Well," Irene said, stroking a hand over his downy hair, still amazed by the softness, "I will have to have your fathers come stay this weekend. It appears Mummy is going back to work."


	16. Chapter 16

"I'm sure this isn't working," Charles said, the soles of his shoes clicking against hard tile as he paced slowly through the kitchen, a light, almost unconscious bounce in his step. "You should take him."

"Relax," Dominique said, earning a slight scowl that clearly had no effect, because Dominique's grin only widened and he refused to relinquish the food preparation in exchange for the baby. "You're doing fine."

"He's not," Charles said sharply, nodding as best he could at his son, who was propped against his shoulder, fidgeting and fussy.

It was discomfiting to say the least; Aaron was not normally fussy at all, and while he wasn't outright crying, he was snivelling and clearly unhappy.

"He's just gassy," Dominique said. "Keep it up, he'll be fine soon."

Charles sighed without disturbing the slow rhythm of his hand on Aaron's back, half wondering if he'd permanently lost all feeling in his left arm.

"You're better at this than I am," he said.

"Yes, and I'm better at this, too," Dominique said, gesturing with the rather sharp, serrated knife in his right hand.

"You're cutting baguette," Charles pointed out dryly.

"And I'm better at it than you are," Dominique said, flashing another cheeky grin. Charles rolled his eyes, keeping a fruitless comment to himself.

It made no sense to keep things as they were, because Dominique _was_ better with Aaron; Charles found the mechanics of it uncomplicated once he could clarify Aaron's needs, but Dominique seemed to understand it effortlessly, as if he'd been gifted with some innate talent.

Charles strongly suspected this was the case, and that it was also the reason he was being given what was clearly an opportunity to develop his parenting skills.

As if on cue, Aaron gave a small hiccup and spit up on the double-layered receiving blanket slung over Charles' shoulder. This prompted Dominique to put the knife down and circle the kitchen island, wiping Aaron's face gently with the top blanket, murmuring comfortingly. Charles followed the movement as best he could – he might have agreed to this task, but his suit was expensive, and he had no interest in an avoidable mess.

"Keep going," Dominique said, smiling slightly when Aaron hiccupped again. "No, no, you're all right," he murmured when the baby started to cry, more startled than actually upset, Charles suspected. Dominique smoothed a hand over Aaron's hair, reaching behind him to snag a dummy without looking. "There you are. You see? Much better now."

He eased the soiled blanket from Charles' shoulder without jostling Aaron and tossed it into an ubiquitous laundry hamper. With a repressed sigh, Charles abandoned all hope of giving up the baby when Dominique returned to the food, clearly unwilling to be dissuade from it.

He kept moving, rubbing Aaron's back now instead of patting it, aware of the softening of small muscles and the slowing of his son's breathing. He couldn't see it, but was certain Aaron had fallen asleep. Dominique's quick smile and lack of comment was confirmation enough; he was staying silent so as not to wake Aaron.

"At least let there be wine," Charles murmured, watching his partner's eyes dart back to the baby, alert for any signs of disturbance.

"She has a good taste," Dominique replied, voice low, as he produced a bottle from one of the island's shelves.

"We gave her that," Charles pointed out.

"Well then we have good taste," his partner replied, flashing another smile. "Take this," he added, passing Charles the bottle to carry in his free hand. "I'll get the rest. We might as well be comfortable, too."

"You could take him," Charles suggested, rolling his eyes but not really annoyed when Dominique shook his head with a cheeky grin.

"It would just wake him. Besides, it's good for him to be held and hear your heartbeat. It helps form the right kind of attachments."

"You read too many of those books," Charles muttered, following his partner into the living room, where Dominique set up the cheese and meat board, along with the baguette, before returning to the kitchen for their wine glasses.

"You read them, too," Dominique replied.

"I will need to put him down to eat," Charles pointed out.

"No," Dominique said, leaning in to brush their lips together in a quick kiss. "Don't worry. I'll help you with that."

* * *

There had been time for idleness, for indulging in the utter contentment that always followed a session. Katherine had been good enough to book a masseuse for each of them, and Irene had even allowed herself a small glass of wine, a very rare treat after Aaron's birth. The satiated haze hadn't been rushed – with Charles and Dominique caring for Aaron, Irene had no reason to hurry, and there was no one in Katherine's home who would interrupt or interfere.

It ended naturally, both of them revived and refreshed at almost the same time. She didn't mind leaving her personal clients still too content to move when there was nothing else to be done, but it was always gratifying to have a client who could pull herself together as quickly as Irene herself did, and Katherine was a client to both of Irene's professions.

The need to know the promised information sparked a renewed energy, moving them into Katherine's spacious home office, where she presented Irene with a slim file that felt as if it contained next to nothing.

"It isn't much," Katherine said, a note of apology in her voice as she settled into the chair across from Irene, the pale leather upholstery and her white dress contrasting against her dark skin. "Little more than a name, really."

The name was one Irene hadn't come across before: Jennifer O'Haughan, née Moriarty, born seventeen months after Jim, to the same parents, and privately adopted within a week of her birth.

"The adoption records are sealed," Katherine said. "You understand the difficulty."

"I do," Irene murmured. Scandal was hardly new – or a deterrent – to her, but a woman like Katherine, a public figure and a figure of public trust, would need to be much more circumspect in these sorts of enquiries.

"They kept him, but not her," she commented, thinking out loud rather than in need of conversation, but Katherine nodded.

"More's the pity for them, I'm sure."

Irene's lips twitched in a wry smile as she scanned the scant information again. There would certainly be a trail from here, an adoption agency or a solicitor; these things didn't simply happen without some legal intervention.

"Indeed," she replied, and didn't bother to wonder at the motives Jim's parents had for their actions. They were long dead, under somewhat mysterious but officially unresolved circumstances. That, of course, had never been connected to Jim himself in any way.

As far as the police knew.

She would have to go very carefully; even with Jim safely tucked away in a secret prison below London, pursuing this could create problems.

Complicated problems.

"Thank you," she said, closing the file.

"You're welcome," Katherine replied, rising when Irene did, leaning over to brush a kiss against her cheek. "Do come back soon."

Irene smiled, returning the light kiss.

"I intend to."

* * *

"I wish Uncle Sherlock could come," Olivia said in her off-handed way, bouncing up and down on her toes, the light-up trainers that had probably nearly given Mycroft an aneurysm flashing as she moved. There was a lightness to her tone that John suspected meant she'd forget about it almost immediately, and he was proven right when she continued with: "Can we see the butterflies first? Please?"

He scooped her up, earning a delighted giggle, and glanced down at David, who looked more sombre.

"Well," John said, managing to crouch down without losing his balance or his grip on his niece. "I know he wanted to," that was a deliberate lie, but one he was willing to tell to perk up his nephew's spirits, "but I also know he really wants all of us to have fun today. And," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "we've all had lots of adventures with Uncle Sherlock. This can be _our_ adventure. How about that?"

"Yes!" Olivia exclaimed, and David smiled, a genuine smile without any hesitation behind it.

"You can both take loads of photos," John said. "He'll definitely want to see all of them after we get home."

It was a very deliberate form of torture and John knew it, but felt only the smallest pang of guilt. David and Olivia would enjoy sharing their experiences with Sherlock, who could be a very attentive uncle when backed into a corner and offered no other choice.

Privately, John knew that was a little unfair; Sherlock had always been fantastic with David and had adapted to Olivia's exuberant personality by going along wherever her enthusiasm and energy led him.

It was pretty much the only response to Olivia, he mused, as he was tugged past the entry toward the butterfly enclosure.

"I want to see the penguins first," David said firmly, the only person in the world who seemed to be able to steer his spirited sister. "Then the lions."

"The lions after the butterflies," Olivia said, making a face at him. "Uncle John, can we have ice cream first, please?"

He didn't bother putting up any semblance of a fight, smiling at her immediate delight and at David's satisfaction.

They stopped at one of the stands, Olivia dancing around them as David contemplated his flavour choices carefully. The seriousness of the decision made John smile; Olivia had opted for vanilla without any real consideration, but David had always been much more thoughtful.

Olivia, John thought, must have come as a hell of a shock to Mycroft after David.

Then again, Mycroft had grown up with Sherlock, so maybe he'd had at least some inkling that not everyone in his family was going to be as cautious and deliberate.

"Uncle John!" Olivia cried joyfully, snagging John's hand as David gave his order. "Look! It's Mary!"

John turned, following Olivia's line of sight to the woman she was waving madly at. Mary registered him, the surprise on her face mirroring what John's at seeing a familiar face in the midst of the zoo.

Mary hesitated, expression relaxing into a smile when John beckoned her over. Olivia glanced at her uncle, waited for John's nod, then bounced over to Mary, taking her hand to tug her along, talking animatedly the whole while.

"Hi, John," Mary said when she reached them.

"Mary, hi. I didn't expect to see you here," he replied, wincing internally at how bluntly that came out, but Mary only smiled, shaking her head.

"Small world, isn't it? I was just on my way out, really – I was here with a friend."

"A friend, eh?" John asked, arching an eyebrow. Mary shook her head again, laughing, but he didn't miss the faint blush creeping along her cheeks. "And he's just gone off and left you?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. It was him and his daughter, but she wasn't feeling well, so he took her home… Not much I could do there, so I thought maybe I'd stay. Have a bit of a wander, but I'm not really sure."

"You could come with us!" Olivia said, shooting John an expectant look.

"No, I wouldn't want to intrude…"

"Have you seen the lions?" David asked. Mary glanced down at him, surprised, but shook her head. "Then it would be silly to leave."

The young man behind the counter caught John's attention, and he fished out his wallet, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Go on, then," he said. "And let me buy you an ice cream."

"Oh– are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," John laughed. "We're all having one, no need for you to be left out. We'll take another," he said to the young man. "Whatever she wants."

Mary ordered and he paid, distributing the cones to the small group.

"You must be David," Mary said, smiling down at John's nephew, and to John's surprise, extending her hand formally. David shook it, nodding and looking pleased.

"You're Mary, the nurse who works with Uncle John. Livvie told me. She was happy about the dinosaurs."

"Well I can't take credit for those," Mary said. "Your uncle bought them, after all."

"But you _played_ dinosaurs with me," Olivia clarified. "Did you know that birds evolved from dinosaurs? Penguins are birds and we're going to see the penguins first, which means we're going to see dinosaurs."

"Are we really?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Olivia said firmly, slipping her hand into Mary's and tugging her along, a small force of nature suddenly in charge of the whole group. "And then the butterflies."

"And then," David added with a certain satisfaction, "the lions."

"You're in for it now," John said with a grin, and Mary chuckled.

"What more could anyone ask for?" she replied, smiling brightly back at him.

* * *

The moment he needed to compose himself when he got home was stolen by Gabriel and Sandra's dog having heard the door open and launching herself at him in a fit of joyful barking and a wagging tail, running happy circles around his ankles. He might have winced at the dog hair being inescapably attracted to his suit, but the sight of his living room dismantled and reassembled into some sort of structure made of cushions rooted him to the spot.

If it hadn't been for Sam shouting Sherlock's presence to the whole flat, John would have missed the stricken expression; Sherlock would have had time to smooth it over, hide the horror behind a neutral mask.

He was aware of David and Olivia grinning out from the fort at him, smiles accented by the fairy lights that John had acquired from somewhere and strung up around the cushions.

He was also aware that this constituted some kind of payback and that he didn't really have any grounds for complaint.

John had warned him the children were spending the weekend, after all.

It could be argued that the rest of this – the dog, the fort, the lights – were extensions of that fact.

It could also be argued, much more easily, that he'd earned this by refusing to tell John about the sleeping aids.

John had caught the dismay, a challenging look in his brown eyes, as if waiting for Sherlock to protest. Sherlock swallowed, forcing a smile that became easier and more natural when he crouched down, almost thrown off kilter by his niece barrelling into him. David was more restrained but his hug was no less enthusiastic.

"Hello, small humans. Did you enjoy the zoo?"

It proved to be entirely the wrong question to ask, because he was dragged fully into the living room to be subjected to a dizzying array of pictures taken by two excited children. David's at least were in focus and generally well framed, but Olivia's better reflected the speed at which she travelled through life rather than any attempt at capturing a coherent moment.

There was nowhere to sit, so he had to make do with the floor, Sam lying over his ankles, getting even more hair on his trousers, the children pressed on either side of him, pointing out every detail they could in the pictures on John's phone.

"Mary was there?" he asked when Olivia launched into a story about John's nurse and how many butterflies had landed on her head, exactly like – according to his niece – a fairy crown.

"Yes, she was there with another little girl but the girl got sick so Mary came with us."

"And she just left this little girl? What little girl?"

"No, Uncle Sherlock," Olivia sighed, breath gusting against his cheek. "She went home with her daddy. Mary stayed with us."

"She was with a friend and his daughter," John explained. "The daughter wasn't feeling well so they left and Mary stayed. She was on her way out when we ran into her."

"So she stayed with us," Olivia repeated, eminently satisfied.

"Did she indeed?" Sherlock murmured, skimming through another series of David's photos, able to actually see the lions he'd intended to photograph, and making a note to check up on that.

 _Jealous?_ his mind chimed and Sherlock hid a scowl, unhappy with the irritation the situation provoked. He was certainly _not_ jealous, but had never particularly been keen on coincidence like that; London was a big city and it wasn't common to simply run into people one knew.

He'd vetted Mary himself, of course, and knew she had friends with children.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to check again.

Just to satisfy himself.

The photographs finished, Sherlock thought he might be free, but John and the children had other plans, roping him into some inane board games he had no reason to refuse, and insisting he watch some mindless animated film with them. He was then ordered into the kitchen by John to help with bedtime snacks, fully aware he was out of his depth, following John's instructions on the basis that this was the simplest and fastest way to regain his freedom.

He almost didn't; David and Olivia pleaded with him to sleep in the fort, but there were definite lines Sherlock wouldn't cross. He had a very large and comfortable bed, and absolutely no good reason not to sleep in it.

Particularly now, when he doubted his body would find much rest sleeping on the floor. Granted, there were cushions and blankets and things, but his muscles knew it too close to the cave floor a decade ago and half a world away, where he'd spent one feverish night, drifting in and out of consciousness, only dimly aware that a single, solitary person stood between him and being recaptured by his abductors.

He kissed his niece and nephew good night and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when a blanket of silence settled over the flat. For a long moment, Sherlock simply stood in his bedroom, revelling in the peace – even the dog had gone to sleep, burrowing good-naturedly into the fort with John and the two children.

He indulged in a long shower and wrapped himself in his favourite pyjamas and dressing gown before settling down in his office to continue working. Sleep was elusive but for the normal reason; he simply didn't need it.

He followed up on Mary's story, mildly annoyed that it checked out, given the texts and messages she'd exchanged with a friend over the course of the past week. That settled – despite the lingering dislike that she'd spent the day with John and he hadn't, even if he never would have consented to the zoo – he turned his attention to the real work. With the silence in the flat, and the absence of the typical guilt over leaving John in bed by himself, the hours flowed by easily, the world coming to heel beneath his fingertips, solutions to problems presenting themselves and being implemented, new problems (for other people) opening up, giving him opportunities, access, and rewards.

The small clock on his desk chimed one-thirty very quietly; it had never been loud, and could barely be heard outside the room, even with the door open. Sherlock stood, taking a few minutes to stretch, and padded into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea in expert silence. For a moment, he considered taking the trip up to the roof of his building, where his telescope was housed in a small, private garden, but decided against the effort.

The balcony was balm enough tonight; the air was chilly now with the encroaching hint of autumn, despite the warmth of the days. Sherlock settled on the sofa, fiddled with a pack of cigarettes but opting to sip his tea leisurely instead. Constellations – those easily visible through London's light pollution – wheeled slowly overhead, tracking the passage of time.

The faint sound of footsteps through the bedroom made him glance over his shoulder; that certainly wasn't John's tread. A small hand appeared on the balcony door as Olivia steadied herself over the threshold. Sherlock set his cup aside, leaning forward to watch her pad across the floor and scramble up beside him.

"You should be sleeping," he pointed out.

"I'm not tired," Olivia replied. "May I have the blanket, please?"

Sherlock liberated the blanket from the seat back behind him and tucked it around her.

"Why aren't you tired?" he asked.

"I don't know," Olivia replied pragmatically. "Why aren't you?"

"I don't get tired easily," he replied. "Or much."

"Neither does Daddy," Olivia said.

"Or your grandmother," Sherlock commented. It wasn't particularly surprising that she'd inherited the same tendency. David had too, at least to some extent, which Sherlock suspected would increase as he grew.

"I'm named after her, you know."

"I do know that," Sherlock murmured. "After both your grandmothers, actually."

"No one calls me Sibyl, though. Do you know why?"

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, half wondering if she was testing him.

"Do you?" he asked by way of reply. Olivia shook her head, pale curls bouncing in the moon- and city lights.

"Your grandmother Sibyl – my and your father's mother – is still alive. Your grandmother Olivia – your mother's mother – isn't. So they call you Olivia to remember her and to not confuse you with my mother."

"Oh," Olivia said, plucking absently at the blanket. "I see."

"Do you want people to call you Sibyl?" Sherlock asked.

"Sometimes," Olivia replied. "But not a lot. It's pretty."

"So is Olivia."

"Yes," she agreed with the easy confidence of someone nearly three years old. She was silent for a moment – a rare feat for her – then squinted up at him. "Would you do it, Uncle Sherlock?"

"Call you Sibyl?"

"Yes. Because you don't call your mum Sibyl. You call her Mum."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, impressed by the insight.

"That I do," he agreed. "Do you want me to call you Sibyl?"

"Yes," Olivia said decisively. "But just you. Like Uncle John calls me Lizard."

"I can do that," Sherlock agreed.

"Thank you," she replied, leaning up to kiss him. Sherlock leaned down to meet her more than halfway, to keep her from having to squirm out of the blanket. She cuddled close to his side, turning her gaze to the stars. "Is there a consolation–"

"Constellation."

"Constellation that's a dinosaur?"

"I don't think so. But why don't we see if we can come up with one?"


	17. Chapter 17

It had been a long night, but worth the effort of staying up until the first hints of dawn began to creep through her windows.

Mary sat back from her computer, tilting her head to one side and sighing with quiet relief as muscles stretched and joints cracked. Her shoulders were stiff from sitting for far too long, honed assassin's muscles protesting the unaccustomed inactivity.

Sherlock Holmes had looked into her trip to the zoo as she'd suspected he would, but she'd gone prepared with a week's worth of falsified messages backing her up, which had satisfied him, at least temporarily.

Either he was getting sloppy or she was on top of her game.

She doubted it was the former.

Especially not when it came to John.

But everyone had pressure points – she'd learned that long ago, before Charles Magnussen had reached out to her through clandestine and intricate channels to strike up a partnership of sorts.

John Watson was Holmes' biggest pressure point, but hardly the only one. The others rotated around him in a close orbit, their appearances in his life predictable in their own ways. Holmes was a man on the look out for talent even in the most obscure places. Certainly that was how he'd found John.

She suspected he'd found Charles Chauvière while looking for a different kind of talent altogether, but Holmes was never one to waste a good opportunity when it presented itself to him.

Irene Adler she was far less certain of.

If Mary hadn't known better, she might have suspected some kind of previous intimate relationship, but there was no indication that Holmes had ever even entertained the kinds of inclinations that would have led to that. Some submissive sexual tendencies, Mary would easily believe.

But not women.

It frustrated her, the connections seemingly obvious on the surface but not nearly as deep as they should have been. Adler had wanted to step out of the limelight, and Holmes had needed someone to take over his Irish base for him.

It was too simple, and too neat.

It _was_ possible. But it didn't feel right.

She'd learned long ago to trust her instinct. There was a lose thread here, and it needed to be pulled.

But it wasn't enough to be a pressure point; while she was certain both Holmes and Adler would react to any threat against the other, they struck her more as equals, both confident in the other's ability to handle their own affairs.

Gabriel Mitchell on the other hand…

A sixteen year old boy spotted at random at a symphony gala, scoped up immediately, moulded and directed to fill all of that potential that might otherwise have gone to waste. Mary recognized the relationship for what it was, a mix of mentorship and brotherhood. The kind that became family and could, occasionally, surpass family.

It certainly had for Mitchell. There wasn't much indication he kept in touch with his own family, some cursory contact with his mother and sister, more obligatory than affectionate. Nothing with his father.

And, of course, his brother was dead.

Technically the law didn't consider him to be, not yet – it hadn't been nearly long enough. Three years missing and another four to go before the courts would consider him legally deceased, but Mitchell hadn't seemed at all concerned about the absence.

The police had abandoned the case when it had gone cold, but a man like Mitchell had the resources to pursue it if he'd wanted.

It was possible he simply hadn't wanted to, given his statements to the police about his relationship with his brother.

But he also had the means to have had his brother killed.

There was no evidence, of course, and she doubted there would ever be any out there to find. Holmes would have seen to it.

Some relationships _did_ surpass family.

Still, there were ways around it, and unless Mary was greatly mistaken – and she knew she wasn't – Richard Mitchell was a pressure point for Gabriel Mitchell.

And Gabriel Mitchell was just enough of a pressure point for Sherlock Holmes to turn his gaze away from John Watson enough to let her do what she needed to.

* * *

The steady stream of noise and chatter was grating first thing in the morning, permeating the flat with offensive ease. Sherlock took refuge in a long shower, debating internally over lingering (but certainly not hiding) in the sauna, but John would mark his absence and count it against him, and his niece and nephew would be disappointed.

Still, he didn't rush in his preparations, taking extra care with his hair and clothing. Sherlock noticed when John noticed; normally his partner appreciate the effort, the perfect cut of Sherlock's suits complemented by distinctive cuff-links and exquisitely tempered curls.

Today, John's lips pursed briefly, an annoyed expression vanishing almost as soon as it had appeared, but lingering long enough for Sherlock to have caught it, like a warning.

"Good morning," John said lightly, no hint of the displeasure in his voice, where David and Olivia might pick it up.

"Good morning," Sherlock replied, masking his own discomfort with practiced ease, accepting a kiss from his niece, who was warned off hugging him by John, because of her messy hands.

"We're making breakfast," she said proudly.

"I see that," Sherlock replied. "And smell it, too."

"It's French toast!" Olivia said excitedly. "With bananas. And peanut butter."

The combination sparked a small inner protest from his stomach, and David pulled a face, shaking his head at his sister.

"For _you_ ," David said. "The rest of us are having raspberries."

"Uncle John likes bananas," Olivia said in an off-handed way. "He said."

"Uncle Sherlock doesn't," David replied. "So he can share with me."

"I don't–" Sherlock began, feeling slightly adrift in the good-natured argument over fruit, and having had no intentions of consuming anything more than a cup of coffee before fleeing for the relative safety of his office.

A dark warning look from John stopped the rest of his words dead and Sherlock shook his head, trapped by the unspoken rebuke and the prospect of a long, heavy breakfast.

"I wouldn't want to deprive of you of your raspberries," he said, the words sounding weak to him, a white lie to smooth over a situation neither child was even aware of.

But David smiled, shaking his head.

"There's lots. And I want to share."

"You can help set the table," John said over his shoulder. "This one, not the dining room."

Sherlock bristled at being ordered about – ordinarily, John's curt military tendencies were problematic for other reasons, but Sherlock had rarely found John's ability to keep him in the flat inconvenient. Today, it chafed, and he could feel John's sharp gaze on him as he set the small kitchen table, as if the simple (and menial) task of setting out appropriate eating utensils was beyond his remarkable intellect.

He even got Olivia's settings right; John had insisted some time ago that they get smaller cutlery to suit her smaller hands, and offensively coloured glasses.

Sherlock managed to avoid using one of those by pointedly making himself a coffee. If he was going to be subjected to this much food first thing in the morning, he wasn't going without some typical comfort.

John's demands weren't satisfied when Sherlock had finished with the table; he was passed every serving dish as it was ready, and was certain John was using more than strictly necessary if only to make extra work for him. Once that was finished, Sherlock was put in charge of supervising the children as they washed their hands – this required very little work on David's part, who was every inch his father's son, but Olivia needed reminding to do the job properly.

All of that and John still seemed displeased when they sat down around the table, as though Sherlock had deliberately spited him by doing as he was told.

But John was a far better actor than he gave himself credit for when his audience consisted of David and Olivia; he kept up a deceptively cheerful façade, one that spoke volumes about how angry he was but only to Sherlock, who understood that very delicate language.

"What will you do today?" Sherlock asked, keeping his tone as light as John's, as if there was nothing brewing beneath the surface.

"We're going on a boat!" Olivia exclaimed excitedly. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, gaze flickering to John, who returned the look with a challenging gleam in his eyes.

"I thought I'd take them on the Solarshuttle in Hyde Park," John explained. "It's a nice day. Then maybe the Natural History Museum for a bit."

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that Olivia was too young to swim well yet; the Solarshuttle was completely enclosed, and he knew that John would drown before he let his niece do so. And he never would have opted for this activity if he hadn't been granted permission from Angela. Any concerns Sherlock had would be taken as criticism so he merely nodded and said:

"That sounds like a wonderful idea. It _is_ a nice day, isn't it?"

"Do you think we could take the tube?" David asked. Sherlock baulked instinctively, knowing his reaction would mirror Mycroft's, but for slightly different reasons. His brother would worry about his children's safety; Sherlock was immediately concerned for John's. Underground, John's ability to contact him in an emergency would be limited, and although the other figures of note in London's underworld knew enough not to so much as glance threateningly at John, Sherlock couldn't be assured that their underlings wouldn't see this as an opportunity.

He became abruptly aware that he was holding his breath, willing John to say no, but the doctor merely shrugged and smiled, to David and Olivia's utter delight.

"I don't see why not."

Brown eyes flickered across the table, John's gaze very clearly challenging him: _If you can take illegal drugs without bothering to tell me, I can do this._

Sherlock forced a smile onto his face, ignoring the unease, and the discomfort at the thought of all of those people crammed into a metal tube underground, breathing and coughing, and generally being far too close to one another than reasonable people should be to total strangers.

In the lift on the way down to the car park, where Gerald was waiting patiently to help him escape, Sherlock turned on the very private and very secret GPS tracker on John's phone.

It brought some measure of relief, but not much.

The office was better, an utterly silent balm after the temporary chaos of his home. Sunday and no one was in – this wasn't always the case but the necessity of being present ebbed and flowed. Gabriel made an effort when Sandra had weekends off, something which routinely sparked a dull flash of guilt in Sherlock, who was aware that John's weekends off were far more regular than anyone else in his life, yet his own efforts to adjust his schedule had been less than committed.

Today it scarcely mattered. John didn't want him at home, even if John himself wouldn't be home during the day. He would have never said it, but Sherlock understood the currents of John's moods far, far better than John suspected he did, particularly when some shift in those currents was in response to him.

It was easier to be here, where he had room to think. To breathe. Tina had left her desk ready for the next day, as if she'd just been in and had stepped away briefly, a snapshot of ordered productivity frozen in time. Sherlock ignored it beyond noting it, eyes sweeping over the open desk calendar to one side, barely used, the clean and empty tea mug (that he'd bought her, years ago, in Shanghai), the incongruously abandoned pen.

His office was much the same, ready for him to pick up where he'd left off but, like so often, there was no outward appearance of that. Like so often, the work was invisible on the surface, no effort apparent to anyone watching.

If there had been anyone watching.

Sherlock settled into his chair, back to the sprawling view of the Thames, turned on the exquisite sound system, which handled Beethoven almost better than any living performance could, and brought his hands together, fingertips brushing his nose.

It was so much easier to do this alone, with only the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra for company, the music filling all of the unnecessary space, leaving Sherlock to focus on what was important.

Of course he was never really alone, not here. His business didn't take up the entirety of the building and there were always others moving across the periphery of his space, unaware of and inconsequential to him. Unlucky office workers, cleaners, security guards… And somewhere, there was Cheryl, even if she wasn't physically present. She was never without access to the building's security cameras and while there were no recording devices of any kind in Sherlock's office, a large concession to his freedom was the tracker he'd allowed her to install on his phone.

Not in response to the incidence with the sleeping medication – that would have made no sense, since he'd been at home and not at risk from anyone, except John's misguided but well-intentioned help.

After Pakistan, both she and Mycroft – among others – had insisted, and Sherlock had agreed. He'd resisted briefly, only for appearances' sake. It occasionally felt restrictive, but Cheryl never had to resort to it to get him out of a bind. There had been a few precarious moments in the intervening decade, however, when Sherlock had been grateful for its presence, situations when it might have become necessary, but his skills had diffused the threat before hers had been needed.

The train of thought made his eyes flicker down, quickly, to his own phone. He'd left it unlocked, propped up so that the app tracking John's location was easy to see. Sherlock felt a moment's relief and satisfaction when the tiny icon showed his partner at Hyde Park, and he slipped back into himself, finding a deeper relief in the solitude.

But even if he'd removed everyone else who routinely accessed the building, and even if he'd somehow slipped Cheryl's remote observation, he would still not be alone.

There was one person always here, physically present, even if his mind had escaped – fled – down uncharted and convoluted mental pathways.

There were always people watching Jim, too, but they came and went, significant only for the part they played in keeping Jim securely where he was.

Jim was the problem right now. _One_ of the problems. There were always so many, clamouring for his attention, the personal distraction of John threatening to push itself to the forefront. For a moment, Sherlock felt his mind stutter, on the verge of being dragged back by the swell of sound in his office, but he refocused, slipping away again.

The problem was the girl.

_What girl?_

He'd asked Jim that question and had asked himself repeatedly since then, refusing to let the frustration become more than mild. It was a puzzle, but not one that could be solved by becoming exasperated and trying to beat an answer out of nothing.

 _The girl_ implied some degree of youth, and it might have transmuted into the Woman, but it wasn't Irene. The Irish connection simply wasn't enough, and if Jim had had some link, even an imagined one, to Irene, she would have put it together when Sherlock had told her about the girl.

His lips quirked at the oddly appropriate symmetry of sending the Woman to find the girl, and Sherlock wondered what progress she'd made there. Whatever Irene found, she would tell him when she felt there was enough to go on; he trusted her as much as he trusted anyone close to him.

In some ways, more.

" _When I say run,_ run _."_

 _No._ Sherlock shut the thought down, refusing to be pulled back by it, his office almost shifting back into view for a moment, shadows flickering around him the way the lantern light had in the cave ten years ago.

The effort of forcing the thought away threatened to overtake him; Sherlock let himself relax, very slowly giving a small measure of trust to his mind, just enough to test the waters.

Was he trying to distract himself, or was he trying to tell himself something?

The memory of Irene's face resurfaced, the first time he'd seen it – seen _her_ – after she'd whispered the command to flee and had followed, leaving a trail of chaos behind her. Not even really her face, just her eyes, dark and unaccented by any makeup, scrutinizing him from behind black veils, seeing through the last of his tattered defenses without weakening any of hers.

He'd been spotted, identified, marked. His reasons for being there had become transparent to _someone_ , stripping away the illusion of his business to reveal Mycroft beneath.

He still didn't know how.

None of them did.

Mycroft _would_ have told him. At least that much. Official secrets or not. Sherlock had been a breath away from dying.

And Mycroft had sent him there.

He faltered again, re-steadied himself.

Someone had known to look for him, but no one had known to look for Irene.

She'd been invisible. Unseen because of her sex, indistinguishable because of her clothing.

Hiding in plain sight.

Was that how Jim had hidden his girl?

_What girl?_

If he'd hidden her, truly hidden her, Sherlock would have found her by now. She would have been a surprise, but an older one, three years gone.

He would have made sense of her, perhaps found some use for her.

But she hadn't been hidden, not like a treasure, not like the key to a safe deposit box whose discovery by Sherlock had unwound all of Jim's plans, had drained all the remaining psychotic glee, leaving him stripped bare, defenseless, on a hospital rooftop in central London.

She wasn't one of his plans. Or part of his game.

She was an unknown quantity. Perhaps a threat. Perhaps under threat.

Perhaps both.

He'd hidden her somewhere. And the best place to hide something was in plain sight.

He saw Irene again, shrouded in black and in a flight attendant's uniform, hidden in plain sight on both ends of his escape. The one for which she'd been responsible.

Where would Jim hide someone in plain sight?

"Sherlock!"

The sound around him vanished, the sweeping music replaced by sucking silence so abruptly it jarred him physically. The sound of his name was even worse, an offensive return to reality that didn't actually add up.

"You're not here," he said curtly to Tina, who raised an eyebrow at him in return.

"Am I not?" she asked. " _You've_ barely been here all day." She tapped her forehead for emphasis, as if Sherlock might not catch her meaning – he ignored the fact that the sudden shock of coming back had left him momentarily scrambling for mental balance.

"It's Sunday. You don't do Sundays."

She raised an eyebrow again, an entirely inappropriate gleam of humour in her eyes.

"I told you yesterday I'd be in today."

"Who's 'M'?" Sherlock asked abruptly, earning a quizzical look. "The diary on your desk, the one you only use for personal reminders because, quite frankly, neither my schedule nor yours can be adequately kept on paper. You're in today because tomorrow is dedicated to 'M' – clearly a person of some importance, or else you wouldn't have taken a Monday off for them, and you have obvious feelings for them, given the fact that you've encircled the initial with a heart."

"You can't encircle something with a heart," Tina pointed out. "By definition, it has to be a circle."

"The personal reminder and the symbol suggest a strong emotional attachment – even if the heart is absurdly sentimental – and someone you enjoy remembering. A close relationship given the fact that you've only used an initial; a romantic attachment is most likely. Names beginning with 'M' or 'J' are the most common in English, so 'M' itself is not a surprise, and likely a common name. Someone you've been seeing for a not insignificant amount of time but not long enough for the relationship to become engrained, or else you wouldn't have bothered with the heart. Hiding in plain sight. You aren't worried about people realizing you're in a romantic relationship, but aren't confident enough yet to commit the name to writing, not in potentially public view. Matthew, perhaps? No. Someone you've mentioned before, in an attempt at a casual remark. Michael."

Tina crossed her arms, giving Sherlock an exasperated look.

"As it happens, I _do_ know someone named Michael and we _do_ occasionally get together. _Because_ ," she continued as Sherlock drew a breath to deliver another observation, "sometimes it's nice to grab a drink after work and relax a bit before going home. Michael?" she prompted at Sherlock's blank look. "Gabe's PA? He works here? We're friends, Sherlock. We're not shagging. I'm adding that last bit because you're not always great at picking that up with women. 'M' is my mum. Tomorrow is her birthday. I'm taking her to Paris for the day. Remember?"

She gave him another exasperated look, this one warmer, and shook her head.

"That's why I'm here today. I got here before you did."

It explained the incongruous pen and the way her desk looked as if she'd just been there. She had. Stepped out for a take away coffee, most likely.

"Why 'M' then?" he demanded. "Why not 'Mum'? Two additional letters would hardly consume a significant amount of time."

"I don't know," she sighed. "Does it matter?"

"You have two siblings," he said, aware that the abrupt change in topic had caught her off guard. "Brothers?"

"Sisters," she said. "Why?"

"No brothers?"

"Not unless my dad's been up to things we don't know about. Which _you_ would know about," she replied. "Why?"

Sherlock pressed his palms together away, gaze drifting away.

"Nothing," he replied. That was wrong; he'd certainly have known by now if Jim had been associated with her in some way, and he doubted Jim would have much to worry about if Tina _were_ the girl, being safely in Sherlock's employ.

But it felt like he was closer to something, and the frustration at not knowing _what_ threatened to undermine everything, to strip away his concentration, leaving him with nothing.

"What did you want?" he asked abruptly, refocusing. "You came in here for something."

"I'm going to order lunch. Do you want anything?"

The suggestion was almost absurd in its banality, as if the tedious daily demands of his body somehow took precedence over the work.

"I'm fine," he replied.

"Suit yourself," Tina said. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Leave me alone," Sherlock said, feeling his mind pulling away already, annoyed at having to continue an unnecessary conversation. But Tina only nodded and left, the door clicking closed behind her, leaving him in comfortable isolation again.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Gave the office back over to Beethoven and let himself go, trying to find a path he knew was there but could not yet see.


	18. Chapter 18

He got John's text on the way home in the car, unable to contain the deep sigh at the photograph of John, holding Tricia and Jamie's daughter, Heather, Tricia and Jamie themselves, and Mrs. Hudson, all against the familiar background of John's former flat.

The doctor had gone to Baker Street for a Sunday dinner, abandoning Sherlock to an empty flat, the prospect of which seemed as deliberately aggravating as filling their home with other people (and a dog) had that morning.

He resisted the urge to simply tuck the phone away and ignore the message. It was a simpler response, but only temporarily; the calculated silence would only make John angrier.

_Have a good time and tell them all hello for me_ , he texted back, surprised to see John typing almost immediately.

_Mrs. Hudson says you owe her a visit._

Sherlock sighed again, nodding absently to himself.

_I do. Tell her it will be very soon._

That was enough without breaking his already strained patience; Sherlock slipped the phone into his suit jacket pocket, slightly alarmed at the relief when John didn't reply further.

He thanked Gerald and dismissed him for the night, declining the offer assistance carrying up the new suit Pierre had sent to his office that afternoon. The thought of someone accompanying him any further was more burdensome than the garment bag, and Sherlock rode the lift up alone, grateful that none of his tenants had managed to time a trip with his.

The flat was silent when he let himself in, a welcome respite despite the fact that John wasn't home. The relief was short-lived; the cushion fort in the living room was still standing, complete with its decorative blankets and fairy lights.

For a moment, Sherlock wondered if John had left it for him to dismantle, but Sam padded out, yawning and stretching, tail wagging as she trotted over to Sherlock. He repressed a shudder at the thought of all that dog hair on the cushions and wondered how quickly he could have a cleaning service in to undo the damage.

The dog sniffed his ankles, following him happily into the bedroom, where he stowed his suit in the closet, unwilling to discard the garment bag when so much animal hair was floating around. Sam's demeanour suggested she hadn't been alone long; John and the children had likely taken her to the park, which meant they hadn't gone to the museum. It was irrelevant knowledge, gathered more out of habit than anything.

Well. There was no sense in her being here now, with David and Olivia gone home and John out.

"Come," Sherlock said to Sam, who followed him obediently, riding the lift unconcerned, ears perking up when they stepped into the corridor on Gabriel's floor, where the smells of home would be immediately obvious to her.

He was grateful that Sandra answered the door and was able to return Sam and escape before being subjected to any of Gabriel's pointed questioning. But the emptiness of his own flat almost made that alternative seem preferable.

Without any pressing need to work and without John, Sherlock felt at a loss.

The sensation annoyed him; he'd never had this issue before meeting John. There had always been _something_ to occupy his attention, or to distract him when he had no desire to concentrate. Admittedly, there had been a number of distractions at his beck and call if he'd wanted them, one of the perks of having a series of lovers without any attachments. There were days that, despite himself, he missed that freedom.

Now, Sherlock sought the same refuge as he had a few days before, but the violin seemed out of sync with him, the melodies he drew from the strings false and stilted. If his mother were here, he might have managed it; he'd always been able to follow on the trails she'd led him, even when the music was at its most obstinate.

Tonight, everything was out of sorts, and he abandoned the attempt, stowing his violin carefully back in its case before wandering the flat aimlessly, irritated at his own idleness.

In an effort to do something productive, he took a shower and then settled in the sauna, hoping the heat would dissolve the tension from his mind as much as it did from his muscles. The minutes trickled by until Sherlock finally lost all track of them, given over to the sensations of the heat, the way the air clung to his skin and his lungs, the dull burn of the cedar planks beneath his back and against his legs, the brush of something akin to coolness when he shifted one leg, letting the sole of his foot take the brunt of the heat.

It was rare to feel so utterly and unconsciously in his body, without any sense of urgency. John could do – and often did – an astonishing job at grounding Sherlock with physical sensation, but that was always tight, desperate. Exquisite and urgent.

This was calmer and deeper, but without any of the heaviness of sleep. When the door eased open, letting in a cool draught, Sherlock blinked his eyes open, languid awareness lingering for a moment before apprehension crept back in, coiling in his lungs.

John was still dressed, having swapped his short-sleeved button down shirt for a t-shirt, but still in jeans, feet bare. He wouldn't disrobe any more, Sherlock knew, not now. No matter how uncomfortable it might make him. John left the door open, his concession to his clothing, and probably in no small part to let the chill become slightly uncomfortable for Sherlock, who was wearing nothing at all.

"Good night then?" John asked, taking a seat, elbows on his knees, right hand wrapped around his left fist. "No, don't get up."

Sherlock relaxed deliberately, staying where he was, uncomfortable with the fact that he was being kept at such a disadvantage, naked and lying down, but unwilling to push John further by sitting up. The action felt too confrontational anyway, as if it would square them off against one another rather than putting them on equal footing.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied, seeing a flash of annoyance in John's brown eyes, sparking a dull mirror in himself. "Did the children enjoy the park?"

"They did, yeah. Olivia loved the boat, of course. And the lake. And the playground. Everything, really. David, too."

Sherlock nodded, aware of the way John tracked the motion. Such a military response. It rarely made him so uncomfortable.

"And Tricia and Jamie? They're well?"

"Yeah, good," John said, rubbing his hands together, mercifully no longer fisting them. "Heather's growing like a weed, of course. Really starting to get the hang of walking now."

Sherlock nodded again; that was unsurprising, at twelve months old.

"It's always good to see them again. They've settled into the flat well."

He suddenly wanted to ask if John missed it, the question hovering, unspoken, on his tongue. It had been John's home first, where Sherlock had installed him after hiring him, part of the conditions of John's contract. A real flat to call his own and protection for Mrs. Hudson.

Who had Tricia and Jamie now, both former military. And a one year old baby. A whole, growing family in a house in the midst of the bustle and life of central London.

John had been part of that once – before Heather had been born of course, but part of that extended family nonetheless.

Now it was the two of them in a sprawling flat above the city, where the noise and the chaos of London seldom reached them.

Sherlock closed his eyes, wondering if John regretted it.

Especially now.

"What did you get up to, then?" John asked. Sherlock let his eyes fall open again, hesitating before meeting John's gaze.

"Am I done?" he murmured.

"Are you done?" John echoed.

"John, am I done being punished? Is this enough?"

John stared at him for a long moment, then heaved a sigh, some of the tension seeping out of his muscles. He reached behind him, extending a small white box to Sherlock, who took it reflexively. He must have had it in the waistband of his jeans, Sherlock realized, or it would have been crushed when he'd sat down.

"It's prescription," John said. "In your name. From an actual doctor – that'd be Mike. To be taken under the supervision of another doctor. That'd be me. It's not quite what Irene gave you, but it's the closest legal equivalent. And it works."

Sherlock's eyes skimmed the prescription information on the label before flickering back up.

"John–"

"You do _not_ get to take it without telling me, do you understand? That's non-negotiable, Sherlock. You don't have to tell me why, but you have to tell me that you are. _Do you understand?_ "

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, hoping John wouldn't misinterpret it, but also hoping his partner wouldn't see the relief there.

"Yes," he replied, meeting John's gaze again. "Thank you," he added after a moment's hesitation. It was inadequate to express how reassuring it was to know the option was open to him again, that when the memories overtook him, leaving him desperate and rung out, he'd be able to escape.

It would be difficult telling John, but less difficult than becoming the victim of an exhausted mind trapped in itself.

John sighed again, dropping his head into his hands for a long moment before looking back up.

"You're done," he said, "as long as you don't do that again."

Sherlock nodded, fiddling with the box, then sat up, extending it back to John. The doctor gave him a look as though he'd passed some sort of test and stood, padding out of the sauna. With an inward sigh, Sherlock slung his towel around his waist and followed, watching as John stowed the box away. It was a measure of John's trust – maybe an undeserved one – that the doctor put it in Sherlock's medicine cabinet.

Still, Sherlock didn't fail to note that John tucked it behind some other items, so it couldn't be plucked out without dislodging something else.

He also noted the exact position of each of those items.

It wouldn't take much for him to liberate the box and return it, unnoticed.

Surely John knew that.

The look the doctor cast over his shoulder told Sherlock that John did indeed know, and the knowledge sat poorly with Sherlock, an inescapable weight in his stomach. He spread his hands, as if in admission that he knew John knew.

He could certainly get away with it again. If he were careful, he could probably get away with it for the rest of his life.

But he'd know. Even if John trusted him, Sherlock would know it wasn't deserved.

As much as he disliked the idea of having to expose his vulnerability about this to John, he loathed the idea of betraying his partner that deeply.

"Right," John sighed. "I'm going to tidy up the living room."

There was no unspoken invitation or expectation in John's tone, but Sherlock donned his pyjamas and helped his partner dismantle the fort without comment. He was relieved to see it go, but kept his expression neutral. He had no desire to put John further on the defensive, or to start a row about something so inane.

When they were finished, John liberated a bottle of wine and two glasses, settling onto the restored sofa and turning on the television. Sherlock joined him, disinterested in the program his partner chose, but aware that he should be making an effort. The plot was simplistic and easily solved within seconds, and John showed no inclination to sit right next to him, leaving Sherlock bored and at a loss. He kept his best mildly attentive face on, and was somewhat relieved by the lack of proximity. As odd as it was for them – John enjoyed using Sherlock as some combination of pillow and arm rest – Sherlock wasn't certain he wanted any substantial physical contact.

A newer, deeper relief swept through him when the program ran its course and John shut the television off. By the way John stretched when he stood up, it marked the end of a day that Sherlock was happy to see the back of.

He took the wine and the glasses, taking care of the washing up, much to John's surprise. By the time Sherlock had finished that to his satisfaction – wine properly re-corked and stored, glasses washed, dried, and put away – John was climbing into bed.

Sherlock joined him, earning a surprised look.

"Are you tired?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock replied, stretching out on his back, adjusting the pillows beneath his head.

"You don't have to just lie here, Sherlock. I don't want you to get bored."

"I won't get bored," Sherlock replied. "I want to be here."

John gave him a dubious look but sighed and nodded.

"All right," he said, reaching over to turn off the light. Sherlock lifted one arm as John shifted beside him, adjusting his position. In the darkness, Sherlock could better smell John's scents, the hints of minty toothpaste and soap, a very faint trace of something in his hair – shampoo rather than product – and the familiar smell that was John himself, that reminded Sherlock of warmth.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," John murmured, fatigue already creeping around the edges of his words.

"I won't," Sherlock promised again. He nuzzled the top of John's head with his nose, lips almost twitching into a ghost of a smile when an arm wrapped around his waist and John pillowed his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Good night," Sherlock said and felt an answering smile through his pyjama top.

"Good night. Try and get some sleep."

He merely nodded in reply, pressing his lips against John's temple, and stayed silent, listening to his partner slip slowly into sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock donned his new suit the next morning, impressed – as always – by Pierre's work. He examined himself critically in the mirror, preening slightly, pleased with the results and the striking image he'd cultivated his entire adult life.

John would be pleased, too.

He'd chosen a medium grey with purple undertones to specifically pair with his purple silk shirt. That had always been his best colour, and he had several of them now – one hadn't been enough after he'd met John, who preferred Sherlock in that to anything else. In their first two months together, he'd had gone through three of them; now he kept a number of them on hand, and a standing order with his tailor.

The doctor was up and about; Sherlock could hear the sounds of water running as John brushed his teeth and shaved. He busied himself with selecting a pair of cufflinks, silver inlaid with one small diamond each, something would offset his outfit well without drawing attention away from the clothing itself.

He timed stepping out of the walk-in closet with John finishing up in the bathroom, surprised to see his partner was already half-dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans, with a t-shirt and light jumper tossed carelessly on the bed.

John smiled, eyes flickering up and down Sherlock's body, but without the sudden, appreciative glint Sherlock was expecting.

"Morning," John said, pulling the t-shirt over his head, undoing his belt to tuck the shirt in, the action lacking any kind of suggestive hint.

"Good morning," Sherlock replied, keeping his tone smooth, playing off what he knew very well to be one of John's weaknesses. He closed the distance between them as John pulled his jumper on.

The doctor smiled again, leaning up to kiss Sherlock quickly before squeezing a bicep.

"I have some early patients, so I'm off. Have a good day. Eat something."

Another brief kiss and John was gone, leaving Sherlock alone in their bedroom, bewildered. He remembered himself in time to follow, but not in time to catch John before the doctor was closing the door to their flat behind him, the sudden silence swallowing everything.

He could have chased John into the corridor, stopped him from getting on the lift, but there was too much desperation implied in that; Sherlock wanted John interested of his own accord. He didn't want to force the attention – and he shouldn't have had to, looking like he did.

Sherlock checked himself in the mirrors of the entryway closet, confirming what he already knew. Irritation reflected back at him; Sherlock smoothed the expression into his typical neutral disdain, tugging on his cuffs to straighten his sleeves unnecessarily.

The outward projection of indifference did nothing to lessen the sting of John's implicit rejection.

He _knew_ he looked stunning. John wouldn't have failed to notice that.

And John never resisted him in the purple shirt.

The thought that he'd so thoroughly misread John sparked a moment of panic; the idea that his partner was still upset – more so than Sherlock had realized – was paralyzing and frantically energizing at the same time. He needed to _do_ something – chase after John, head him off in the car park, follow him to work, storm into John's office, demand the doctor explain himself so Sherlock could resolve the situation.

He took out his mobile and hesitated, staring indecisively at the blank screen.

Nothing in John's demeanour that morning had suggested the doctor was still angry. If anything, John had seemed more himself that he had in the past few days.

Had John simply lost all sexual interest in Sherlock?

That sudden thought was nearly as horrifying as the idea that John was still upset, and far more foreign, slamming into Sherlock without warning.

Surely not?

It had never happened to Sherlock before – _he_ had tired of some former lovers, but no one had ever become disinterested in him.

He and John had been together for three years. Sherlock could scarcely imagine losing interest in John. The doctor had _never_ ceased to be appealing.

But perhaps it wasn't the same for John.

Sherlock's reflection stared back at him, pale eyes wide and bright. Annoyed, he smoothed his expression again, giving himself one sharp glare for good measure.

"You're being ridiculous," he muttered to himself, stalking away from the door and into the kitchen.

A cup of coffee – and a cigarette – made a world of difference. Whatever had caused John's dismissal this morning couldn't be related to any kind of shift in John's desire for him. That, Sherlock was certain, wouldn't have come so abruptly.

He wished there was some way of verifying this externally, but the thought of asking anyone else was appalling. Mycroft was entirely out, and Gabriel would probably ask some inappropriately probing and astute questions.

Besides, Sherlock didn't need anyone else to help him understand John – leaving aside the insight he'd needed from Gabriel at first because that had been early days, before Sherlock had had any notion of a relationship. Now he knew John better than anyone.

He was an observational genius. He could certainly be relied on to puzzle it out.

* * *

He would have, too, if the day hadn't been filled with any number of blasted interruptions.

It was always annoying when Tina wasn't there; she was an indispensable barrier between him and the tediousness of other people, adept at redirection and confounding even the most persistent of self-important clients.

Without her, there was more to manage on his own – and, Sherlock had to admit, she very rarely had the inclination to stop his other employees from taking up his time.

Which was why Sherlock was entirely unsurprised when Gabriel let himself into Sherlock's office mid-afternoon, uninvited and unapologetic. The glare Sherlock gave him slid right off, returned as a penetrative look that wasn't satisfied with appearances.

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped, aware that the tone of his voice indicated otherwise – he wasn't given to that kind of impatience, particularly not toward Gabriel.

"Good," was all his second said, settling into a seat across from Sherlock's desk, one leg crossed over the other (right leg, so possibly his knee was still bothering him slightly, but no indications of any discomfort, no stiffness in his movements, no twinges around his eyes).

Gabriel gazed levelly at Sherlock from across the desk, tapping the small, ivory envelope he'd fished from his jacket pocket against his knee.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded. "We're both busy men."

"We are," Gabriel agreed with infuriating reasonableness.

"And yet, you seem content to waste both of our time," Sherlock replied coolly, arching an eyebrow.

Gabriel sighed, leaning forward and extending the envelope to Sherlock.

"Thought you might want to see this for yourself," he said.

Sherlock took it, braced for some complication – or perhaps for some actual information on the woman he'd tasked Gabriel with finding.

The one Victor Trevor had alerted them to.

Victor was the connection here, but not at all in the way Sherlock had anticipated; the contents of the envelope were not information on their mysterious Russian, but a gold embossed rectangle of card stock, with a neat tick next to the 'attending plus one' option of the RSVP card.

"He's coming here?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"I thought you might like that," Gabriel said, expression relaxing into a smile. "He told me in New York he thought he would be, but asked me not to say anything until he was sure."

"You should have told me regardless," Sherlock sniffed, passing the card back.

"What, and give up seeing you look like a kid at Christmas?" Gabriel asked, tucking the card away again. "It's not every day you get to be reunited with your childhood partner in crime, after all."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the obvious exaggeration.

"That's hardly an accurate description."

"Well, you two used to play pirates," Gabriel said. "Now you're actual pirates."

"We are _not_ pirates," Sherlock said. "We're accomplished professionals who fortuitously share similar goals."

"Busy accomplished professionals, if I recall your comment from a few minutes ago correctly."

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "Feel free to take that rather obvious hint."

"No problem, boss," Gabriel replied with a grin, pushing himself to his feet.

"And you need to stop speaking to Mycroft about me," Sherlock warned. There was no other way Gabriel would have known about the pirates.

Although he wondered darkly if Victor was quite so circumspect about their shared childhood memories.

"I will," Gabriel agreed, green eyes glinting mischievously. "Only now _you'll_ have to talk to him. Enjoy that – and let me know when you change your mind."

He flashed a cheeky grin and was out the door before Sherlock could respond. Sherlock snatched up his mobile, firing off a rapid text.

_That's still your responsibility. Or you're fired._

_I'll do it_ , Gabriel replied, _if you pull off that best man's speech._

"Damn!" Sherlock swore, certain he heard an answering and fading laugh from beyond his office, and resisted the very childish urge to throw something at the door.

He was thirty-six for god's sake, not six.

He could handle his brother.

Or, rather, he could delegate handling his brother to someone else and focus on important matters.

Like John.

The thought threatened to derail him, nearly overshadowing the pleasure at the prospect of seeing Victor again. Sherlock sat back in his chair, closing his eyes and focussing on his breathing, letting years of training take effect, creating a tenuous balance that gradually strengthened. He ignored the desire for a cigarette, telling himself it was an unnecessary distraction, a habituated psychological response that did not need to be indulged.

The precarious sensations ebbed slowly, their presence not quite dissipated but remaining only as a faint fizzle at the ends of his nerves, making the tips of his fingers buzz with quiet energy. Sherlock ignored it, keeping his focus on his breathing until he'd righted himself enough to keep working.

John was important.

But John wasn't here.

He could sort that out later, when he got home, when there was time and space for it.

At the moment, so much of the world lay open to him, nearly imploring him to come to it, to divert it and bend it to his whim, to bypass conventional standards and to take people and property and situations and to wipe away their banality and make them – against all odds – _interesting_.

* * *

The sharp, perfunctory knock on the door startled Sherlock enough that he hadn't quite recovered when John strode in, shooting him a hard look.

The doctor closed the door firmly behind him, the click of the key being turned decisively, locking them, sending a grounding shock through Sherlock.

"Right," John said, rubbing his hands together as he marched across the room. "Come here."

Sherlock hesitated only a fraction of a second before pushing himself up, aware of the subtle submissive tells – the slight downward angle of his chin, the softening of his posture – but unable to stop them.

From the gleam in John's eye, his partner had caught them, too.

He stopped in front of John, swallowing almost nervously as the doctor glared at him. John huffed, the sound somewhere between annoyance and approval, and moved to circle behind Sherlock.

Sherlock turned his head, trying to track the motion, and there was a hand on his jaw suddenly, John's grip just shy of being too tight.

"Nope," his partner said, increasing the pressure briefly before letting go altogether; Sherlock swallowed again, harder this time, and turned his gaze away.

"Good boy," John murmured, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed.

 _Christ_ , he thought, aware that the clarity of thought might not last much longer. John reserved that particular phrase for when he wanted to take complete control, and Sherlock could feel the stern, piercing captain's glare behind him.

He shuddered slightly when fingertips trailed up his spine, the sensation just palpable through his clothing. John's other hand came around, undoing the buttons on his suit jacket, before both hands skimmed to Sherlock's shoulders, pulling the jacket off in one smooth motion.

Sherlock shifted slightly, trying not to follow the movement as John slung the jacket over the back of one of the leather wing-back chairs, relieved that his new suit wouldn't be tossed carelessly on the floor.

John took a step back; Sherlock felt the movement as an absence of heat, goosebumps springing up when John trailed his fingers up the back of Sherlock's thighs, squeezing his ass quickly before settling on his hips.

"Turn around," John said, stepping forward again, grip tightening, making it somewhat difficult for Sherlock to obey the command. John gave a curt, satisfied nod when Sherlock did as he was told, and Sherlock felt himself unravelling even further, desperate for John to do something more.

John let a hand trail down again, cupping Sherlock's ass, thumb digging hard into dense muscle. Sherlock made a strangled sound at the back of his throat, hips pushing towards John of their own accord. The doctor smiled, a satisfied little twist of his lips, and cupped the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him into a kiss.

For a moment it was nothing more than a brush of lips against his, the lack of sensation leaving him reeling, then John deepened the kiss roughly, invading Sherlock's mouth as he pushed them both backwards towards the couch. The backs of Sherlock's calves caught against the leather cushions, John's added weight unbalancing him altogether. He collapsed, the hand on the back of his head making it impossible to break the kiss, grunting when John scrambled on top him. A hand on his chest pushed Sherlock all the way down, and John pulled away, breathing hard and flushed but with a possessive glint in his eyes that made Sherlock's pulse, already hammering, pick up even more.

He opened his mouth to say something but John cut him off again, covering Sherlock's mouth with his own, shifting his hand slightly to rub a nipple through the purple silk of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock gasped, the sound muffled by John's mouth, arching up. The movement pushed his hips against John's, sending a shock of pleasure through him at the much-needed friction.

He felt John grin into their kiss, hand dropping down, pressing into Sherlock's erection and massaging roughly. Sherlock moaned, managing to pull away for the deep breath he needed, hips moving against John's, desperate for more contact. John changed the angle of his wrist slightly, pressing down harder, rubbing his thumb over the emerging head, and the edges of Sherlock's vision went dark.

"No," John said, dropping the word like a stone. Sherlock snapped his eyes open, sucking in a gasp when John pulled away. The doctor sat back, making sure not to break the contact entirely, keeping his hips pressed against Sherlock's. Sherlock nearly closed his eyes again, trying to focus on the pleasure from the sensation, but John shifted, pulling his shirt off in one smooth motion.

Sherlock's fingers found smooth skin, skimming upward, before John's hands closed over his wrists, a warning look in his eyes.

"Shoes," he said, and Sherlock whimpered as he linked his legs around John's waist, toeing off his shoes and then his socks, kicking them all aside.

"Good," John said, the approval shooting straight to Sherlock's groin.

John pushed himself to his knees, pulling Sherlock's arms up as he went, releasing his wrists with a warning squeeze. Fingers curled into the soft leather of the armrest of their own accord, his teeth digging into his lower lip as John popped the buttons of Sherlock's shirt one by one, moving slowly downward to where his shirt was tucked into his trousers.

John hummed, pushing the two halves of the shirt as far apart as he could and leaned down, face to face with Sherlock, so close Sherlock could almost taste him. He tilted his head slightly, hopefully, but John only raised an eyebrow, fingers skimming along Sherlock's belt to fiddle with the buckle.

Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed when John undid his belt, arching his head back as the sensation shot up his spine.

"Sherlock. Look at me," John ordered.

With effort, Sherlock wrenched his eyes open, meeting John's gaze, brown eyes dark and gleaming. The belt fell open and John undid Sherlock's trousers – too slowly, making Sherlock's shudder, hips pressing upward again as the zipper dragged across his already aching cock.

"Lift," John ordered, and Sherlock dropped his feet back down, one pressing into a cushion, one against the floor, and lifted his hips. John's thumbs hooked under the elastic of his boxer-briefs and pulled his trousers and pants down in a quick movement. The doctor sat back just enough to strip Sherlock down all the way, leaving him only in his shirt, breathing hard.

"Hmm," John hummed thoughtfully, trailing one hand up Sherlock's chest, the pressure keeping Sherlock pinned to the cushions. He licked his lips, heart pounding even harder, the faint smirk on John's lips making him shudder.

John sat forward, nearly brushing their lips together, then dropped his head, gaze travelling down along Sherlock's body.

"Very nice," he murmured, and Sherlock groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and tipping his head back to suck in a desperate breath. John chuckled, raising his head slightly, lips skimming over the skin of Sherlock's neck. Goosebumps sprung up at the teasing touch, and John's quiet laughter made Sherlock whimper, hips tilting upward.

John's fingers wrapped around his hips, holding him in place, squeezing as teeth nipped at the skin where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder. The sudden shock drove the air from his lungs, the sensation heightened by the rasp of denim against his bare thighs.

John raised his head, giving Sherlock a wolfish smile, and Sherlock's mouth went dry as the realization of what was coming hit him. It brought a flash of near panic – it was going to hurt, that exquisite pain that was always too intense, that both terrified him and made him weak with desperate need.

"Good boy," John whispered again, and shifted slightly, lifting Sherlock's hips as he pushed his own downward, pinning Sherlock's cock against rough denim. John's erection pressed against his through the jeans, accentuating the sensation but doing nothing to soften it when John kicked his hips, thrusting hard.

He let his weight go, pinning Sherlock between his body and the couch cushions, and kept moving, the lack of lube making Sherlock's nerves burn. Leather creaked between his fingers, and Sherlock reached out blindly with his other hand, gripping John's back, fingernails biting into skin.

He could hear himself, dimly, voice already hoarse, his whole body taut. He never lasted long like this – he _couldn't_ , not against the raw sensation that left him only one escape. The pressure coiling in his groin felt like searing fire, tight and urgent. It was too much and too soon but he needed it desperately, afraid he might snap and break, or he might never get there, suspended on the edge for too long to let go.

Then John bit down on his shoulder, hard, timing it with a thrust, and Sherlock gave a harsh moan, nearly a sob, whimpering in protest as John kept moving, the scrape of denim against sensitive skin almost impossible to bear now. John sucked hard on the bite and Sherlock gasped, trying to curl forward but with nowhere to go, shuddering as John pulled everything from him that he could.

The weight on top of him eased suddenly and Sherlock gasped again, collapsing back into the cushions, panting and disjointed so that the sounds of John rummaging between the cushions for the lube and shucking his jeans didn't reach Sherlock until John had pushed into him, groaning at the resistance. A flash of pain mixed with pleasure shot through Sherlock and he hung on as best he could as John thrust, hard and fast, coming with a groan buried in Sherlock's neck, the sensation of hot breath on the blossoming bruise making him tremble.

It was a long moment before John moved, while the universe kept swimming around Sherlock, before righting itself slowly. He winced as John pulled out, pursing his lips to contain a whimper, the sensation at odds with the languid lethargy that seeped into his muscles.

John kissed him, softly, fingertips tracing along Sherlock's jaw, the touch making him shiver enough that John moved his hand up, lacing his fingers into Sherlock's hair, thumb massaging his temple. He pulled away, kissed Sherlock lightly again, then smiled, brown eyes warm and sated. Sherlock raised a shaky hand, tracing John's ear, watching his partner's smile grow.

He'd been wrong about any lingering anger on John's part. Sherlock might have been annoyed at how expertly John had played him, if he'd had any energy left for it. As it was, he couldn't be bothered to muster the response, still half lost in a blissful haze, sated by John's smell and taste.

"I'll let you finish up here," John said, kissing him again quickly. "I'll see you at home."

"What?" Sherlock managed, aware of how thick he sounded, unable to mount a more articulate argument.

"I know you still have work to do," John said, vanishing into the private toilet and returning with a fresh pair of jeans – Sherlock had always kept several changes of clothing there, and John had taken to doing the same. The first time the doctor had stashed some items in the small closet, it had made Sherlock weak with the realization of what that meant for him.

It hardly helped his strength now to see John pull on the fresh pair of jeans without bothering with underwear.

"You can put the rest in with your laundry for the service to pick up," the doctor said, pulling his t-shirt back on and leaning down for another kiss. Sherlock returned it almost desperately, trying to convince John, without words, to stay.

"Finish up," John said, the smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle warmly. "But don't stay too late. I promise, I'll be waiting."


	20. Chapter 20

The aroma of Thai spices enveloped Sherlock as he stepped into his flat, mingled with the sensation of warmth that could only come from candles. He hesitated a moment, then removed his shoes, stowing them carefully, ears open for the sound of John's footsteps.

His partner emerged from the kitchen, clearly having timed it to coincide with Sherlock stepping into the living room. A full champagne flute was extended toward him; Sherlock took it reflexively, indulging in an inquisitive sip. John had become much more discerning in his tastes under Sherlock's expert instruction, and Sherlock was glad it had paid off so well. The drink was perfectly chilled, crisp and dry.

"What's the occasion?" he asked, following the motion as John lifted his own glass to his lips.

"I want you to taste of champagne," John said, the gleam in his eyes rooting Sherlock briefly to the spot.

The doctor put aside his glass, liberating Sherlock's as well, to unbutton and slip the suit jacket from Sherlock's shoulders for the second time that day. The knowing smile was enough of an indication that John hadn't missed the faint shudder Sherlock hadn't quite been able to repress.

"And the food?" Sherlock asked, smoothing over the internal imbalance.

"We need supper," John said with a slight shrug as he draped the jacket carefully over a chair. "And I know you'll eat this. I'm guessing you haven't eaten anything else today. Coffee and tea don't actually count, you know," he added, when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest the nearly inaccurate deduction.

"Thought so," John replied, smirking, but Sherlock caught the undercurrent of concern as well. He'd never been able to convince John that his eating habits were adequate for him – and he would admit, privately, that the more regular meals enforced on him were usually pleasant, if not entirely necessary.

"Come on," John said, leading them into the kitchen, where the small table was set, a number of take away containers spread out between each place setting. The open bottle of champagne was on ice next to the table, a clear indication that John had more in mind than the one standard glass with dinner.

The meal was far more comfortable than breakfast had been the day before. The absence of the children and an inquisitive and opportunistic dog weren't the only factors, and Sherlock was relieved when John initiated and carried on a light conversation, without any indication that he was deliberately skirting particular subjects.

John cleaned up after they'd eaten, shooing Sherlock away when he attempted to help. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or guilty, so settled on the more appealing of the two options; he hated doing the washing up and John knew it. It was a welcome feeling, not being pressured into doing it as some sort of penance.

"Come with me," John said, refilling Sherlock's glass and leading them into the living room. John settled them on the sofa, the champagne bottle within easy reach, and turned on the sound system, selecting some soft piano music that bordered on jazz without being too brash for Sherlock's tastes.

"Good day then?"

The question seemed ridiculous in light of what John had done, barging into Sherlock's office and breaking him down so thoroughly. The rest of the day seemed to pale in comparison, and the hand on his knee now, John's thumb not-at-all absently turning small circles, wasn't making it any easier to focus.

Still, Sherlock felt compelled to make John work for it a bit more this time, and nodded, feigning unconcern as he sipped his champagne.

"Yes fine, thank you. Gabriel received a reply to one of the wedding invitations. It appears Victor Trevor is coming."

"He's one of your Americans, isn't he?" John asked, the slight pressure easing up on Sherlock's knee so that the doctor could run his fingertips lightly up and down the inside of Sherlock's thigh. Not quite suggestive, but not quite casual either.

How John found that delicious middle ground, Sherlock had no idea, but had never had reason to complain.

"You make it sound like a collection I add to whenever I have the chance," he replied, a cool note in his voice that John saw right through, judging by the doctor's grin.

"That's exactly what you do," John said. "But you were friends when you were kids, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighed as John's hand settled again, further up than it had been, fingers dragging lightly back and forth across Sherlock's inseam. He spread his legs a fraction, encouraging without being too obvious. John didn't react – at least, not much; Sherlock caught the flicker of approval in his partner's eyes.

"Do you really want to talk about other people?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. John's lips quirked, and he lifted his hand, tapping the bottom of Sherlock's glass meaningfully. Taking the hint, Sherlock indulged in a long sip, closing his eyes to savour the crisp flavour.

The glass was plucked from his fingers; Sherlock opened his eyes, watching John set both of them aside.

"No," John answered belatedly, shifting onto his knees, two fingers on Sherlock's chin tipping his head up, holding his gaze for a moment before leaning down to kiss him.

He kept it light, pulling back just enough to refuse Sherlock anything more. Sherlock forced himself to acquiesce, John's hum of approval sending a faint shudder down his spine.

John shifted his weight to one side, deepening the kiss, and Sherlock took the opportunity to swing his legs onto the couch so his partner could straddle him fully. A hand wove into his hair and John tugged lightly on Sherlock's curls, making him gasp and break the kiss.

"No?" John asked, arching an eyebrow, brown eyes glinting with laughter. Sherlock huffed, wrapping a hand around the back of John's neck to pull him down again, feeling the doctor's smile against his own lips.

Skilled surgeon's fingers slipped the buttons free on Sherlock's shirt for the second time that day, and John tugged the ends free of Sherlock's trousers, running his hands beneath the silk to push it off. Sherlock sat up enough to shake it all of the way off, not caring if the cufflinks got lost on the carpet.

He had others.

John sat back, making quick work of Sherlock's belt and trousers. The brush of cooler air against his skin made goose bumps spring up along Sherlock's legs as John stripped him completely. The doctor's own clothing followed immediately, and Sherlock couldn't deny the flash of relief when John dispensed with his jeans. He still felt raw from that afternoon, not an unpleasant sensation, but one that would become so if repeated so soon.

A faint smile crossed John's lips as he traced one hand upward along Sherlock's sternum, two fingers coming to rest on Sherlock's chin again as John regarded him, almost thoughtfully. Deductions sleeted through Sherlock's mind, the set of John's muscles, the expression on his face, the way he licked his lips quickly, unconsciously –

"Stop that," John murmured, pressing the pad of his thumb against Sherlock's lips. The observations stuttered at the command, then shattered as John shifted, tracing a trail of kisses down Sherlock's neck. The sensation of John's lips against the bruise he'd inflicted earlier made him shiver and he curled his fingers into his partner's hair, hoping John understood the message. His partner hummed again, the sensation of it right against his skin shooting straight to Sherlock's groin.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and willing himself to be patient.

John took his time, kissing him everywhere, lips and hands mapping Sherlock's body slowly, but without any agonizing teasing. It was pure genius the way John could find this balance, leaving Sherlock perfectly poised between relaxation and need, the euphoria focussing his mind only on the physical sensations, leaving him blissfully unaware of anything but John.

John kept him there until he was aching, before tipping Sherlock's cock up and sliding it into his mouth. Sherlock moaned, arching up; John's hands steadied him, giving him just enough freedom for shallow movements. Sherlock raked his nails across John's scalp, whimpering as the coiled feeling tightened, breath coming in quiet gasps.

John hollowed his cheeks lightly and Sherlock came with a soft cry, arching up as restraining fingers dug into his hips. The rush of relief was dizzying, leaving him blinking away silvery spots from his vision, the ceiling swimming gently above him.

John kissed his way back up Sherlock's body, pushing Sherlock's arms up to kneel on either side of his torso. His brown eyes were nearly black, fixing on Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock managed to shuffle down enough to satisfy John, dropping his arms to run his hands up and down his partner's thighs, feeling the restraint there, and the need.

Fingers laced into Sherlock's hair, tracing downward until John could run his thumb along Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock parted his lips obediently, and John eased himself in, setting a shallow pace. The hand in Sherlock's hair kept him still, and he could feel John holding himself back, almost losing control when Sherlock made use of his tongue.

He hummed and John gave a harsh groan, not quite managing to restrain himself as he gripped the back of Sherlock's skull, locking Sherlock into place. Sherlock relaxed his throat muscles completely, letting John get away with it, keeping his breathing even as John shuddered, tense muscles suddenly unwinding.

John eased himself out, slumping enough to press a kiss into Sherlock's curls, fingers playing absently through Sherlock's hair as the doctor's breathing returned to normal. Sherlock settled his hands on John's waist as his partner moved downward, brushing their noses together.

"Shower?" Sherlock suggested.

"Mm," John hummed against his temple. "A bath. We have a whole other bottle of champagne."

* * *

 "Are you certain about this?"

"Are you going to lecture me about being a woman and a mother putting herself in a dangerous situation?" Irene asked, examining the evenness of the mascara she'd just sparingly applied.

Charles raised an eyebrow at her, arms folded as he leaned against the edge of her dressing table.

"I'm not going to lecture you about anything," he replied, and Irene's lips curled upward into a small smile. "Least of all your ability to take care of yourself. I will point out, however, that this is Jim."

"It's _not_ Jim," Irene replied, weaving her hair quickly into a loose braid that she slung over her shoulder.

"It's about Jim then," Charles said.

"It is," Irene agreed. "And someone may very well be watching. Which is why Irene Adler will be staying home today, with her infant son and his two fathers. How do I look?"

"Like a boring person," Charles replied.

"Good," Irene murmured, casting an appraising eye over her unusual reflection. It was a far cry from the self she normally saw, the messy braid replacing perfectly styled hair, her makeup – half hidden behind black-rimmed glasses – more functional than flattering, much cheaper brands than she preferred, expertly applied to look less skilfully done.

Jeans, a light, fitted jumper and casual flats completed the costume, masking everything that was remarkable about her appearance. Of course she'd still be attractive – there was only so much she could do about that – but she wouldn't command anyone's attention beyond a passing glance.

"You'll have _some_ security," Charles said. It wasn't quite a question, but Irene heard the faint undercurrent of uncertainty.

"Yes, of course," she replied. "Unobtrusively. And I'll remind you that she's a sixty-two year old woman."

Charles gave a brief nod; Irene met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. She understood the concern of course – it wasn't just for her, but for Aaron as well. And for Charles himself.

If anything happened to her, he and Dominique would be left to raise Aaron, something she knew Charles would do but emphatically wanted to avoid.

So did Irene.

Charles was, surprisingly, a rather good parent, and Irene knew that Dominique would excel at raising their son if given the opportunity. But that situation would only arise from her death, and she had no intention of allowing that to happen.

She left unobtrusively, moving around Dublin until her trail wouldn't lead back to her home, then picked up a car, _her_ car now, in a residential neighbourhood, both the vehicle and the location as unremarkable as she was.

Her destination was a slightly brighter neighbourhood, further from the city's ancient center, with broader, tree-lined streets and a quiet, sleepy atmosphere. There were few people about, a woman walking a dog whose cursory glance held no interest whatsoever, and another woman, somewhat older, working in her garden, who didn't turn her attention away from her work.

Irene parked in front of the address she'd been given and made her way up the front walk, past a plain but reasonably well-tended front garden. The woman who lived there took only a moderate amount of pride in her home's appearance, nothing that set her apart from the majority of her neighbours. She tended to her garden, but out of habit and necessity rather than passion, enough to keep it neat and tidy but nothing more.

The drapes visible in the windows indicated more care was given to the inside of the house, which Irene approved of. Outward appearances _were_ important – people needed to be guided in what they saw, after all – but one's own comfort was far more important. She would never have tolerated living anywhere with only superficial appeal, and it pleased her that her target appeared to think the same.

The door was answered by a small, slightly stooped woman, who gave Irene a careful look, a hint of questioning suspicion in her eyes.

"Mrs. O'Haughan?" Irene asked. "I'm Rose. Rose Kelly? We spoke on the phone?"

The older woman's expression relaxed into a smile as she stepped back, waving Irene in.

"Oh yes, dear, sorry. You never know these days what people want, do you? Come in, come in. And please, call me Claire."

Irene was ushered into the kitchen, where she was offered a seat at the small table already littered with shoe boxes of old photographs. She accepted tea and a slice of cake, the latter of which didn't appeal, but she expressed her gratitude and let Rose Kelly enjoy it – refusing would make her stand out, and Irene wanted to be as unmemorable as possible despite the intrusion into Claire O'Haughan's life.

"You said you knew Jenny at school?"

"Yes," Irene replied, sipping her tea, pleasantly surprised to find it very much to her taste. "But not very well, I'm afraid. She was closer with some of my friends from back then – Sarah Brennan and Lucy Collins."

Finding the names hadn't been difficult, although tracing the relationships had been a bit trickier. The immediate smile on the older woman's face allowed Irene to relax minutely without changing Rose's slightly questioning expression – she hadn't doubted her abilities, but the confirmation that her information was correct was a welcome one.

"Yes, I remember them. Lucy was such a force of nature. She's done very well for herself over in Switzerland, I hear."

"She has," Irene agreed, and it wasn't a stretch to do so; she'd been half-tempted to give Lucy Collins' information to Charles to examine the possibility of bringing her on board, but she'd demurred – at least for the moment.

It never hurt to have highly placed people in the banking industry, particularly the Swiss banking industry, but the connections were too close at the moment.

"You said you wanted some old photos?"

"Yes, we're doing something of a memory book. For the girls in our year. I don't need to keep the photos; I'll scan them and get them back to you."

As Irene had deduced from her research and from the brief initial phone call, Claire O'Haughan was more than happy to have someone to talk to – or perhaps, more accurately, to talk at. The memories were from fuller times, before her daughter had grown and her husband had passed away, leaving her with an empty house slightly too large for one person and nothing as concrete as her family to help pass the time.

"Jenny's in London, isn't she?" Irene asked. It was a guess but not a drastic one – Jim had been there more than Dublin toward the end, and, if he were hiding a person he wanted to keep close to him, that was the most logical place.

"She is," Claire agreed. "She wanted to stay here but got such a good offer there. Works as an executive assistant, you know. She says she enjoys it, bless her, but it does keep her busy."

"Have you been?" Irene asked.

"Oh dear, no. She comes here when she can. Christmases, usually. I've never been happy with flying."

Irene nodded, and there was no need for Rose Kelly's false commiseration. She'd never been afraid of flying but had always found it tedious in the extreme, particularly to London. Flying by private jet was the only option, of course, but even then, there were so many tiresome processes and delays.

Far simpler to have people come to her, but she suspected a trip to London would be in her cards very soon.

"Here's a lovely one," Claire said. "Jenny and Lucy in the Christmas pageant when they were ten."

Irene studied both girls as Claire gave her all of the details: the girls' roles as angels, how beautiful they'd both been, how wonderful the performance had been that year.

"I think there are a few more from the play," Claire said, shuffling through some photographs, dislodging a few that Irene cast her eye over quickly.

"Who is this?" she asked, plucking an old Polaroid from the messy pile. It was Jennifer O'Haughan without a doubt – Irene had seen enough photographs of her as a girl to recognize that – standing with a boy about her age, both of them smiling and squinting into the sun behind the camera.

The faded scrawl beneath the photo read " _Jenny and Jimmy, 1984_ ".

"I don't remember – oh yes, I do now, that was Jimmy. What was his last name? It's completely escaped me, I'm afraid, but it's been so long! I haven't thought of him in… well it must be decades now. She and Jimmy were thick as thieves. You'd never see one without the other the whole time he was here."

"He lived here?" Irene asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Up the street," Claire clarified, gesturing vaguely towards the front of the house. "For the life of me, I can't remember what his family was called… They weren't here long, though."

"What happened to them?"

"I never did find out," Claire replied. "They moved in, stayed for six or seven months, and then just gone, almost overnight. I do remember that – we'd gone away on holiday, two whole weeks, and when we came back, they'd packed up and left. Jenny was beside herself for weeks. I never have asked her if she's ever looked up him up on that facebook."

Irene nodded, glancing at the photograph again. She'd known Jim Moriarty a long time, long enough that, without having seen him in over a year and without ever having known him as a child, she could recognize the man he would grow into in those childhood features.

"What about this one?" Irene asked, randomly plucking out a photograph of Jenny with a few other girls, all of them identifiable as schoolmates by their uniforms. Claire moved back to more comfortable memories, and was happy enough to make another pot of tea, bustling about the kitchen, sufficiently distracted for long enough to give Irene the opportunity to slip the Polaroid photo, unnoticed, into her handbag.


	21. Chapter 21

Greg Lestrade closed the door to his small office, shutting out the habitual babble and bustle of the Yard, and sighed as he sank into his chair. A pile of case files sat, mutely accusing, on the desk in front of him, evidence of procrastination rather than overwork.

Most of them just needed to be signed off, cases closed by his team rather than handled by him personally. He knew most of the specifics but had to go through the details again – never a pleasant task for any supervisor, but made less so for him given the nature of the crimes.

Being a homicide detective made a difference – he knew it did – but he wished the difference didn't come after the fact.

_Well_ , he told himself, moving some of the files aside to free up a particular one, _let's see what we can do about that_.

It was a cold case, opened three years ago and stalled out right around the same time. He'd seen it before – he'd worked on it initially, due to some tangential connections with other cases of his, but ultimately it had been passed off to missing persons.

He couldn't really blame the detectives there for letting the case flounder – it had gone cold all by itself: no leads, no crime scene, no evidence whatsoever.

Lestrade hated the way it sounded, because there was _always_ an explanation, but it was as if Richard Mitchell had woken up one morning, stepped out of his flat, and vanished into thin air.

No one knew anything.

Which was bollocks, of course – _someone_ knew something. Even if it was Richard Mitchell himself. There was always a witness, even if the only witness was the victim.

And it _was_ possible. Lestrade had seen it, more than once. In a city the size of London, it was easier than most people thought to get lost, even despite the pervasive CCTV systems. Those cameras recorded millions of people every minute of every day – finding one person amidst the masses wasn't like finding a needle in a haystack, it was like finding one specific drop of water in the ocean.

_At least with needles, you can use a magnet_ , Lestrade thought wryly, studying Richard Mitchell's official case photograph – ironically enough, a mug shot from an arrest record for some petty crime. They had others, provided by the family, but the quality and clarity of the mug shot made it far more useful.

"Waste of my time," he muttered, giving his head a resigned shake. He wondered if anyone even missed Richard Mitchell, then chastised himself half-heartedly for that thought.

Richard Mitchell had had – or still had, depending on how Lestrade wanted to think about it – a family, after all. Parents, sister, brother. Although, Lestrade thought, skimming the information in the file, if anyone missed Richard Mitchell, it was unlikely to be his brother.

He'd interviewed Gabriel Mitchell himself, and to say the younger man hadn't been concerned would have been an understatement deserving of an award.

Families could be like that, but usually not without good reason.

And those reasons could be more than enough motivation to resolve a problem. Permanently.

Especially for men as well placed as Gabriel Mitchell.

He certainly had the resources – the entire company he worked for did – but he also had an alibi. Of course, alibis could be secured for the right price, and if he knew what he was doing, it would have been a bullet-proof one.

Then again, if everyone with a motive and some money was as guilty as they appeared on the surface, Lestrade would be a lot busier – and with a lot fewer officers working under him.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat and rubbing his eyes.

Sometimes, people with enemies died through no fault of those enemies.

Nothing in the file jumped out at him; sometimes a fresh set of eyes made no difference at all. But the news often ran pictures of people who had been missing for too long for the police to hold out much hope – not that they'd ever admit that publicly, or to the families. Lestrade could pull a few strings, get Richard Mitchell's face on there for a week or two, see if it stirred up any new leads, no matter how tenuous.

_Worth a shot, anyway_ , he told himself, flipping the file closed and setting it aside, turning back to the work that was likely to get real results.

* * *

It was far too soon to be seen to take another client – there were expectations to be managed, and she was a rare commodity. She needed to be perceived that way. The more limited her services, the higher the demand for them.

It was an arrangement that suited Irene very well personally, but also professionally. Some of her clients came to her through her work for Sherlock, and she needed to be particularly selective when choosing them. Men – and occasionally women – with too much power and privilege tended not to consider consequences nearly as carefully as they ought to. And almost always vastly underestimated the impact those consequences would have on them personally.

She was an expert in ensuring that blame fell squarely where it belonged in the rare instances when that kind of intervention was necessary.

Over the years, she'd refined her naturally exceptional judgment of character, and had only once in the past five years had to resolve an issue caused by a client who had bitten off more than he could chew.

Those who came to Irene through channels other than Sherlock's business were easier to manage. There were no competing interests to juggle, no need to make sure they were satisfied on more than one level.

There were still problems, of course, but it was amazing what a few well-timed photographs or video clips could accomplish. It was vanishingly rare that anyone was stupid enough to try blackmailing or coercing her now, and since she'd joined Sherlock's firm, she'd been granted access to some very resourceful people who exercised very permanent ways of dealing with that sort of thing.

When the need arose.

Most of her clients were more than happy to keep their meetings confidential – Irene was often impressed by the lengths some of them went to, and was adept at spotting those who were professionals in their own right. A sudden change in routine could always be traced back to something suspicious – even if that was just an arrangement between two consenting and otherwise unfettered adults.

But a routine carefully cultivated over months or years – weekend visits to a country home, for instance, or a twice-yearly trip to Dublin for business – could set someone up to start engaging her services without arousing any suspicion.

Those were the clients who took the least amount of effort, and there was always one or two available at any given moment, should she need them to be.

Aaron was a perfect reason for Charles and Dominique to stay even longer; no one could argue with their genuine desire to spend time with their son, and it was useful to have Charles to bounce ideas off of regarding Jennifer and Jim.

But in order to do that, she first had to have ideas.

She needed to think. _Really_ think.

Her clients gave her something to focus on while she thought, her body indulging in that blissful, exhilarating sense of control while her mind spun free, buoyed by endorphins and predatory ecstasy.

Jennifer O'Haughan was Jim's mysterious girl – or at least, she was the most likely candidate. Irene was fully willing to admit they were wrong on that front, but to have connected such a crucial thread in Jim's intricate web without having found the right person would be a coincidence so large it beggared belief.

Irene kept the option open, but relegated it to the recesses of her mind. It didn't bear thinking about, particularly not when there was so much that did.

Jim had found out about Jennifer – when and how didn't matter, nor did it matter if he'd learned of her existence before he'd discovered her identity. What mattered was that he knew, and he'd been able to obscure her connection to him so well that she hadn't even existed as an idea to anyone else.

If Jim hadn't covered his tracks so well, they would have caught a hint of her somewhere – even just a passing remark or stray thread – when they had taken down his empire.

And he _had_ covered his tracks well. Jennifer O'Haughan existed, the same way everyone did now, to some extent or other: online. She had some social media presence – not much, but not so little as to be suspicious. The accounts were genuine; Irene was more than practiced enough at identifying (and often creating) fake accounts to know the real thing.

But also to know when the real thing was being used as a smokescreen.

The accounts were Jennifer's, and everything posted to them she posted herself, but not all of it was true. The photographs were, and some of the information was – generally that which was related to social events or trip. But there was a veneer over everything else, one not easily wiped away.

Her place of work had her on record, but she didn't work there. Her home address wasn't public but Irene had done some digging and turned it up, but Jennifer didn't live there. These discrepancies should have – and would have – rung immediate alarm bells, but someone had gone to great lengths to ensure that the façade held up.

Enquiries to her company – not made directly by Irene, but through very circuitous routes – returned a prompt and professional response that Ms O'Haughan was currently on holiday, and contained offers for assistance in the meantime.

Some very discreet surveillance of her home returned an uninhabited flat. Not empty by any means – Sherlock collected useful people as obsessively as a philatelist collected rare and interesting stamps, and it hadn't been difficult to get an electrician, kitted out with a tiny video camera, into the flat under the pretence of wiring problems in the building.

Irene had scoured the footage carefully – not live as it had been recorded, but after the fact. No sense risking any kind of connection back to her.

Someone – Jim, presumably, but possibly not – had set the flat up to be Jennifer's. It was fully furnished and looked lived in, at least at first glance, with careful touches that included a framed photo of Jennifer and her mother on a bookshelf, slightly dusty as if it had been there for some time, treasured but typical. There was a phone charger plugged in next to the bed, cord trailing across the floor as if it would be scooped up and used at night. The soap next to the bathroom sink was almost fresh, not straight out of the box, but only used a few times, suggesting someone had to change in on a regular basis.

Irene admired the detail, aware that this must only be the surface level. Jim wouldn't have just stopped there. It was too easy. Jennifer had the advantage of a mother who didn't travel, but presumably she had old friends from school who did. It was possible she used that flat when they came around, but Irene very strenuously doubted it.

She would have been surprised if Jennifer O'Haughan had ever set foot in that flat, or even knew of its existence.

The same held true for her supposed job. If she knew the company or anyone in it, Irene would have to lower her estimation of Jim somewhat.

Jennifer was out there, but tracking her through the usual channels was a fruitless waste of time.

No doubt she was in London, at least some of the time. Perhaps Jim had moved her there; perhaps she'd gone on her own. It wasn't unusual by any means for someone her age and with her experience to have found work there, making Jim's involvement in that decision unnecessary. His base had never been London full-time anyway – but London was much bigger than Dublin.

Far easier to hide someone.

And to keep them hidden.

Irene was willing to concede that Jennifer could be somewhere else. Certainly Jim had had the capacity to arrange that, and to erase any evidence of her movement. But an Irish woman in London was far less remarkable than an Irish woman anywhere else, save for Ireland itself, and the amount of time Jim had spent there would have let him keep close tabs on her, ensure her safety.

Jennifer O'Haughan's faked life was in London, but her real life was, too.

But Jim had been thorough, even in his madness.

Whatever Irene needed to know, despite all of her resources, she wasn't going to learn it at arm's length.

She returned home, sated and energized, the ever-present hum along her nerves dampened to comfortable levels. Charles and Dominique were still awake, in quiet conversation accompanied by good champagne and a baby monitor, when she returned.

"Call Margot and let her know you won't be coming back to Paris just yet," she said to Charles, who looked very mildly surprised but nodded. "We're going to London."


	22. Chapter 22

“You understand I can’t let you go alone.”

“Of course,” Irene said, inclining her head slightly. Sherlock gave her a long look, drumming his fingers lightly on the white leather of his sofa, his expression shuttered. Irene stayed quiet, riding out the silence, watching as Sherlock looked away, curling one hand over his lips thoughtfully.

The gesture, and the set of his muscles, screamed displeasure, a reaction he would have smothered almost anywhere else, or if there had been anyone else present. Irene would have preferred his office – something about the formality of it would have made her request slightly less troublesome – but she was glad they were alone.

This was not a conversation they could have had in front of John, who knew nothing of the man it concerned, and Irene was not entirely convinced John had been glad to see her.

He _had_ been glad to see Dominique – he always was – but had been less than thrilled at the prospect of leaving Sherlock alone with her when she sent him out with Dom and Aaron. Particularly because Charles had opted to stay at his London flat, immersed in keeping their French interests running smoothly, albeit from a distance.

Irene understood the mistrust, and knew it sat poorly with Sherlock, but at the moment, it wasn’t important.

“He’s… unpredictable,” Sherlock said, meeting her gaze again.

“He always was,” Irene replied. “Always slightly less so with you.” She didn’t bother reminding Sherlock that he’d chosen her as his Irish lieutenant for a reason. She didn’t need to.

Nor did Irene really need an explanation, but she recognized Sherlock’s need to think this through.

He pushed himself to his feet, pacing a few steps away across the thick living room carpet, before turning back, regarding her critically.

“This is not a good idea.”

“No,” Irene agreed. “But leaving it would be worse. Especially if someone else were to find her before we do.”

“It could get messy.”

“Yes.” She paused, regarding Sherlock carefully. “What is it, precisely?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, and Irene raised an eyebrow at the unexpected admission. “I don’t like the timing, Irene. Jim’s sister. Victor’s mysterious KGB agent. It’s too…”

“Coincidental?” she suggested.

“Coincidental,” Sherlock sighed. “Manufactured, perhaps?”

“Possibly, but I don’t think so.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and Irene let the glare slide right past her.

“Timing _is_ everything,” she said.

It was a lesson she’d first learned on the stage, one that had served her well throughout the rest of her varied career. She had learned to wait, standing in the wings, watching and listening for her cue. She had learned when to approach a potential client, how often to permit her clients to engage her services. When to confront a young British man hot on her trail at the behest of his brother, who was displeased by the high profile of one of her clients. When to take that same young British man up on his offer to head his organization in Dublin, and when to intervene in a desert at midnight to ensure there was a position left for her to take.

It was a lesson Sherlock had learned as thoroughly as she had – he wouldn’t have been here otherwise. Those in their business who didn’t learn found themselves living out their lives in small, uncomfortable cells.

If they had lives to continue living at all.

“Yes,” he sighed, and she understood the displeasure. There was something suspect about all of this, and she didn’t for a moment let herself believe it was only because of Jim’s tangential involvement.

But nor did it feel as it if it were being entirely orchestrated.

The truth likely lay, as it so often did, somewhere in the middle.

She waited, giving him space to think, knowing he’d come to the decision she wanted him to make.

There really wasn’t any other – although Irene did understand Sherlock’s reluctance.

Jim had always been an unstable element. Containing him had made him more predictable, but not in the ways that would matter here. And madness like his couldn’t ever really be entirely directed.

“All right,” Sherlock sighed. “I need to make a call.”

She nodded, waiting as he retired to his office. Irene had no doubt that Sherlock didn’t always inform Gabriel when he went to see Jim, but with two of them going, it benefited the person immediately below him to know what was about to happen. Nothing would befall them, she knew, but in their line of work, an excess of caution was never a poor choice.

She rose when Sherlock came back into the living room, somewhat displeased that none of his tension had dissipated – he had a lifetime of professional training that should have allowed him to deal with it. The fact that he hadn’t – or maybe couldn’t, not entirely – did not sit well with her.

“Let’s go,” he said, “and get this over with.”

* * *

There was more this time, and there had been a time when more had been normal but time slipped away, taking the rest with it and leaving only Sherlock. Usually only Sherlock. Who was still here, like a bright beacon, or a solid rock, but the _more_ was, somehow different, like a sharp note, lighter and higher than anyone else, stirred into the air so that it got everywhere and couldn’t be pinned down to one place and there was nowhere to go to get away and anyway, he didn’t _want_ to get away because he belonged here, in the darkness that wasn’t always dark, with Sherlock.

But the Thames had a tide and the tide was pushing in on him, pushing him back until there was nowhere else to go, pressed up against cold bars that should have held everything else out – usually held everything else out, parting only to admit Sherlock with all of the things that sang of comfort, even though sometimes it let others in, like now but not like now because those where invisible, silent, wanting nothing, like shadows who came and went and could be ignored as long as he sat still, did as he was told, let them change the small things that made life more comfortable or make little pinpricks in his skin that he never bothered with, because Sherlock had sent them to keep things tidy.

This wasn’t tidy. It was so bright – why was it so bright – and loud – he watched the walls where words could leak out, certain they would, that they’d drain away but they didn’t, staying sharp and there, catching him between the highs and lows and Sherlock had let this in, let this happen–

He remembered others – the puppy and the Frenchman – he’d seen them both but separated like droplets of water suspended on glass, distinct and glittering but then gone, although the puppy came sometimes, or once stretched into more than once, hard to know, didn’t matter. The Frenchman was a faded echo – he caught him sometimes in Sherlock’s eyes or voice or hands, like a remnant laid over or traces that wouldn’t ever quite be shaken away, sinking into Sherlock and staying there, but he hated seeing that, because Sherlock was Sherlock without bits of other people, and even the puppy made him different, but somehow more, amplified – he didn’t like that either, because Sherlock _should be_ Sherlock, on his own, without interference.

But this _was_ interference and it was written everywhere on all of Sherlock’s surfaces and in the air and the light and the temperature and there was no getting away from it and _how dare_ anyone be this – this bright reflection, this distraction, especially when the notes were so wrong because he knew – no, he thought, but maybe it was a dream – he’d seen this before, but painted differently across Sherlock, like someone owned him or part of him and kept it tucked away where no one else could get at it.

He did that.

They didn’t know, they couldn’t know, and if he never thought about it then the world couldn’t touch it and make it true. He’d put it down, so far down it was almost not there, covering it with other thoughts and sensation, letting it sleep because sleep was best, undisturbed, not gasping for air as it drown or clawing at him as it climbed back up, settled and quiet, but he could feel it stirring now and he _did not want that_ and it was all wrong, being coaxed out of him bit by bit, like the stroke of a whip flaying away the layers he’d smoothed over it and he couldn’t put them back together, like they wanted to dissolve but he didn’t want them to, shoulders digging into cold metal, feeling his palms wrapped around it, nowhere to go.

Sherlock was doing this – Sherlock _wasn’t_ doing this, but Sherlock wasn’t stopping it, and there was nothing familiar there, no flannel or razor or clean suit but there was something too bright between them, with no way past, even as his eyes darted, seeking escape, a clear route, so that he could put Sherlock between himself and this wrong brightness, this sharp false note.

The world turned to darkness, pinpricks of pressure squeezing along his temples, traitor words lined up on his lips because it was Sherlock, Sherlock was _there_ , behind everything else, full of expectation for all the things that he shouldn’t have known about, that he’d buried so deeply no one should have seen the impressions, caught a trace scent on the wind, but Sherlock _did_ know and he’d known before, once, voice following the same path as the sharp note now, loosening the locks around _it_ , wanting to know more than he should, all of it, but he’d held off then, reburying it and hiding it away, and Sherlock had forgotten – he _must_ have forgotten – but he couldn’t have and it would be easier, better just to say it, to let it bubble up and be gone, nothing more than the space of a breath and he’d be free and–

No.

He would not talk about the girl.

He _would not_.

It changed then, that sharp false note, and it stopped making sense and started making _more_ sense, throwing him back to something he’d forgotten but had always remembered, really, because it was never that far from the surface but unused because _no one_ used it anymore, not here, only now someone was, and the melody was different, familiar, from a long time ago, comforting and warm, impossible – but no, it made sense, because it was the Woman and she _knew_ this, she knew like Jim did, and he had a word for it, a name.

Irish.

It was like a secret, the way the girl was a secret, but one that could hold all sorts of other secrets because no one else knew this, had this score, not the Frenchman, not the puppy.

Not Sherlock.

It was like a cypher, built into his brain, and the words couldn’t escape, not this time. He could let them out, and so could the Woman, but only the way they wanted to, because Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – didn’t understand, hands in pockets, watching intently but without the same kind of awareness, and he had all sorts of languages programmed into _his_ brain, but _not this one_ –

“Tell us who she is. We can protect her.”

That wasn’t true, could never be true, no one could, they didn’t know–

“We protect you.”

That was true, it _was_ , no one found him down here that Sherlock didn’t want, everything was close and safe and there was no way in, not without Sherlock and they could bring her here, keep her tucked away. Just as secret. Just as safe.

“We just need her name,” the Woman said. “The one she uses now.”

* * *

Irene had gone – Sherlock had dismissed her after a brief but fruitless discussion; they were not going to make any progress on the problem without Gabriel’s input. Not because they couldn’t, but because Sherlock wasn’t willing to let them.

If this was connected to the woman the CIA was looking for – the one to whom Victor Trevor had alerted them – then his second-in-command needed to be involved.

If it wasn’t, Gabriel needed to be involved anyway.

Sherlock was not stepping into this without the full backing of his best people.

He wasn’t sure, yet, if they were stepping into this at all.

But if they did – if _he_ did – it would be as prepared as possible, his entire arsenal at his disposal, every contingency considered, every angle covered, every possibility planned for.

If they pursued this, it could not go wrong. One misstep could undo everything he’d spent his life building, strip it all away so quickly and effectively that not even Mycroft could prevent it.

They could walk away. Wash their hands of the whole affair.

It was the simplest option, but perhaps the most irresponsible.

There was one loose end out there, a single, tenuous connection that linked back to Jim Moriarty.

London’s underworld had, by and large, been glad to see him go, and those who had protested the change had found themselves very suddenly exposed and without friends. The most intelligent had seen the wisdom in accepting the new order Sherlock had established; those who hadn’t found their lives considerably more exciting.

For a short period of time.

But Jim’s sister…

She wasn’t part of his network. No ties to the vast web of contacts and associates Jim had built. Uninvolved with the myriad schemes and ploys and plans.

A single, stray strand, unconnected, who didn’t belong.

And someone else had found her first.

Sherlock stared at the computer screen, at the smiling photo that belied all of the chaos and uncertainty that must lie beneath, tracing the echoes of Jim in her features.

He wouldn’t have picked it up unless he’d known – so the person who had her would have to have made the connection first. It was too tidy, too convenient, to be a coincidence.

And if he could find that connection, it bore very careful consideration about what else he might find.

_Janine Hawkins_ , Sherlock thought, glaring at her photo, _what are we going to do about you?_


	23. Chapter 23

_You should go home_.

John ignored the thought, giving his head a small shake as if to dislodge it from the loop that had wedged itself in his mind.

 _I trust Sherlock_ , he told himself firmly, and wondered if it were true.

It _was_ true.

Mostly.

In almost every aspect of their lives, he trusted his partner. Sherlock was a liar and a deceiver by trade, and John was aware that he was shielded from the bulk of that, or that there were some things he just didn’t need to know and that Sherlock made the conscious choice not to tell him about.

He knew Sherlock would lie to him when necessary about work – but, he told himself, it was more fair to admit that Sherlock would tell John bluntly that it there were questions he could not answer.

As he’d done with the incident in Pakistan.

John still didn’t know exactly what had happened there – even after being confronted, Sherlock wouldn’t, or maybe _couldn’t_ , tell him.

John wondered if he even wanted to know.

The bits and pieces he’d picked up from when Sherlock’s nightmares kept a grip on him, refusing to relinquish him to consciousness, made John think he might not want all of the details.

He wasn’t sure he could handle it.

Not because of the obvious severity – he’d been a doctor in the army, after all. He knew something about the depravity people could sink to, sometimes all too easily. He’d seen it once or twice, but always as a surgeon, someone who had the immediate and pressing charge of repairing a battered body, but not the responsibility of piecing a broken mind back together.

He wanted to let himself believe that it wouldn’t change how he saw Sherlock, but he knew it would, and could admit that to himself with a private scowl. Because what he knew now only touched the edges, and he hadn’t even learned that until after they’d been together for several months. It _would_ change how he saw Sherlock because it was more information, and that always altered the picture.

He didn’t want his image of his partner changed, not like that. He didn’t want to strip Sherlock down to some base level, to see him as somehow vulnerable.

But it was more than that. Deeper. Sharper.

John’s hands curled unconsciously into fists, trying to displace the low burning rage. All it would need was one spark, one tiny breath to fan the flames, and he couldn’t afford that. Not now – maybe not ever.

John really didn’t want to know, because if he did, and if whoever had done whatever had been done to Sherlock was still alive, there would be no stopping him until they were dead.

It wouldn’t matter who else knew – Mycroft or Irene or Gabriel – and it wouldn’t matter what Mycroft had already done to them or how long ago it had been.

If it came to it, if he was faced with whoever had hurt Sherlock, John didn’t trust himself to have any restraint.

And, he realized abruptly, he didn’t trust Sherlock and Irene together.

It was a bit of a shock – he’d been suspicious of each of them after the incident, but individually, and Irene had been removed by the practical virtue of being in another country, so part of it had been almost abstract to John.

Now she was here, in London, with Sherlock.

Alone.

Plotting who the hell knew what.

 _You should go home,_ his mind chimed again.

 _No_ , he told himself, firmly.

It wouldn’t make any difference – it’s not as though they’d carry on with whatever they were doing if John showed up, no matter how unexpectedly.

And he _had_ to trust Sherlock, he told himself. He had to. At least to keep the promises he’d made to John after the drugs. And that meant trusting that whatever Sherlock was up to with Irene, he wouldn’t go down that path again.

“What does this mean?”

John refocused his attention on the package held towards him, taking it reflexively. Aaron, distracted by the movement, made a grab at it, but Dominique displaced his son’s tiny fingers with one of his own, giving Aaron something else to grip.

It was a dummy with a tiny moustache painted on it and a ridiculous pun that made John’s lips twitch into a slight smile, some of his tension easing.

“If you say ‘moustache’ right in English, it sounds a bit like ‘must ask’,” he explained. “I must ask you a question.”

Dominique stared at him for a moment, lips moving silently as he sorted out the English pun, before his eyes lit up with appreciative glee.

“Ha!” he said, snagging the package back to dump into his shopping basket, joining it with several more for various infant ages. Aaron watched with interest, reaching vaguely for the small pile of items now occupying the basket.

“Irene’s going to hate those,” John pointed out.

“But ’e already loves them,” Dominique replied cheerfully, handing a package to Aaron, who made a gleeful sound and immediately stuck it in his mouth. Dominique eased it away, replacing it with the tethered dummy the baby had just spit out, and let Aaron play with the package until John had to rescue it from where it had been flung to the floor.

“Anything else?” he asked, straightening up. Aaron made a dissatisfied noise when John dropped the package into the basket, rather than returning it to him, but was easily distracted by the brightly-coloured plush toy Dominique had wisely tied to the baby carrier.

“Dom?” John asked, and Dominique shook his head as he dragged his attention back. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Dominique said, but there was an undercurrent of confusion that said otherwise, one that sent a mild warning chill down John’s spine. “I just thought– no, it was nothing, I’m sure.”

“What?” John pressed, peering in the direction Dominique had been looking, seeing nothing untoward at all – a few other shoppers, none of them paying them any attention.

“I thought I saw someone, but no, I don’t think so. I don’t normally see them.”

“Them who?” John demanded, senses on alert now, muscles tensing as military instincts tried to take over. “Did you see someone following us?”

“No,” Dominique replied, giving his head a firm shake. “They are better than that, usually.”

“Who?” John snapped, lowering his voice when one of the other customers in their aisle gave them a puzzled glance.

“The, um… ’ow do you say… guards of the body?”

“Guards of the–” John began before the term clicked. “Bodyguards? You mean bodyguards?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Dominique said cheerfully. “They are _very_ good at not being seen.”

“You have bodyguards?” John asked, tripping up on that point, even more befuddled by the surprised look Dominique gave him.

“Of course,” he replied, as if it was a normal thing to have.

“Since when?”

Dominique shrugged lightly, his utter lack of concern baffling John even further.

“Since Charles and I ’ave been together, I think. It’s more important now, with ’im,” he added, letting Aaron grip one of his fingers again.

“I don’t,” John said, and Dominique gave him an odd look.

“I’m sure you must,” Dominique replied, but John gave his head a sharp shake.

“Sherlock trusts me,” he said, wishing immediately he could retract the words and their implications, but Dominique grinned.

“It’s not about trusting _you_ ,” he pointed out. “It’s about everyone else.” His grin widened, and John felt like he was being teased gently, but couldn’t bring himself to be offended by it. “Is it really so shocking? You look like you need a drink.”

“Bit early for that,” John managed.

“Pah,” Dominique scoffed, still grinning, eyes bright. “You English. You worry too much about stupid things. Come on. I will buy.”

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” Gabriel asked, green eyes fixed intently on Sherlock, who broke the gaze briefly, a small concession to resignation.

“As sure as we can be without a DNA test,” he replied.

Gabriel glanced away, drumming his fingers on his knee. Sherlock kept his silence, letting the younger man think, until he gave a curt nod, refocusing.

“I doubt that’s necessary,” he said.

“No,” Sherlock agreed. It was an offensive understatement to say that Irene was good at what she did – Sherlock had no doubts that she’d made all of the right connections, and the information she’d gleaned from Jim only added to that certainty.

“So now…” Gabriel spread his hands, as if appealing for answers, “do we do anything about it?”

“Precisely.”

Gabriel was briefly silent again, thoughtful, but didn’t break Sherlock’s gaze this time.

“We could leave it,” he said. It was a statement of fact, not a suggestion – for a decade now, Sherlock had had cause to appreciate someone who would consider the possibilities as thoroughly as he himself would, and who could be counted on to do so with him. It kept them from missing any potential problems that could trip them up. Trap them.

“We could,” Sherlock agreed.

“It could be a coincidence that she works for Magnussen,” Gabriel said. Sherlock suppressed the faint unease that shuddered up his spine at the mention of the name – caution was one thing, but superstition was stupid. _He_ was hardly going to be summoned by his name being spoken in what Sherlock had ensured was an entirely secured office.

“It could indeed.”

“But I doubt it.” Gabriel pushed himself to his feet, pacing a few steps before turning back to Sherlock. “Information is what he does. Blackmail, too. He wouldn’t _let_ a coincidence like that happen. He knows, and if he knows, he’s holding it over her. Which means she knows, too.”

He paused again, considering.

“But what _precisely_ does she know?” he asked.

“The question of the hour,” Sherlock commented, playing absent with a pen, aware of the displacement activity and the vague craving for a cigarette that accompanied it. He ignored the latter, allowing part of his mind to focus on the sensation of the pen between his fingers while keeping the rest of it turned to the conversation.

“Most likely: that they’re siblings,” Gabriel said. “Least likely: Jim’s existence and location.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sitting forward slightly.

“Why is that least likely?”

“Because it’s been three years,” Gabriel replied. “Jim knows who she is, and was adamant about protecting her. So adamant he wouldn’t tell you about her – and made Irene promise we’d protect her. He couldn’t have found out about her since he’s been down there, obviously, and he needs her to be safe. He wouldn’t have let a loose end like that dangle while he was still on the outside.”

“He would not,” Sherlock agreed. “But that doesn’t mean she knows.”

“But they were friends, according to Janine’s mother. What did she say to Irene? ‘Thick as thieves’.” A smile quirked on the edges of Gabriel’s lips, and Sherlock felt the twinge of amusement mirrored in himself. “I think he’d have wanted her to know.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock warned.

“The lack of it is Mycroft’s feature,” Gabriel said. “Or at least he says it is.”

Sherlock chuckled once, softly, and Gabriel settled back into the chair facing Sherlock’s desk.

“I’m serious,” he said.

“That Jim is sentimental?”

“In his own way. And for this – for _her_ , definitely. His lost childhood best friend, who turns out to be his sister. The one who was taken away from him, twice. He’d want that back. He’d _need_ her to know.”

Sherlock sighed, putting the pen aside.

“Yes, I agree,” he said.

“So we’re back to the question of what she knows. And if Janine knew – or suspected – we had him, we’d have picked up on that by now.”

“We didn’t know about her,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, _because_ she wasn’t on our radar. If she’d been looking, she would have been.”

“By extension, you’re arguing that Magnussen couldn’t know either.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “Because if he knew Jim was still alive, he’d want to know where Jim was. And if he was looking into where Jim was, we’d know about it. But there hasn’t been anything, Sherlock. Not a single thing. Not a whisper or a rumour or even the barest hint of one person asking one question. Jim’s name leaves ripples. You know that.”

Sherlock nodded; he did indeed. He’d seen it so recently, the unease that spread, invisible as the wind, with the mere mention of Jim’s name. Three years hadn’t erased that altogether – it was unlikely that any amount of time would.

He’d kept himself attuned to the whispers that suggested Jim before he’d even known Jim Moriarty’s name; the intervening years had only made him more sensitive to those murmurs, able to detect them long before they became tangible.

He’d cultivated the same awareness for threats against him or his people.

If Magnussen had turned his gaze to them, Sherlock would have known by now.

The timing of the nightmares about Pakistan made a sudden and shocking sense – there _was_ a threat out there, in the shape of Janine Hawkins – or Jennifer O’Haughan – an unknown quantity linked to the most instable threat they’d ever faced.

“So we need to know if Janine knows anything of value,” Gabriel said. “Or if Jim does.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed hard, focusing intently on the younger man.

“Does Jim still have value,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

It was a necessary question, but one he’d wanted to avoid all the same. Jim’s existence was simple now – Sherlock had removed the volatile complications Jim caused, but kept him alive for his value. Even imprisoned, and utterly insane, the information he’d been able to provide over the past few years had always been invaluable.

“If Jim is dead, does it solve the problem?” Gabriel asked.

Sherlock nodded slowly, pressing his palms together, resting his index fingers against his lips. Silence washed over the office; some part of Sherlock’s mind appreciated how well-adapted Gabriel was to his thought processes, because the younger man didn’t speak, giving Sherlock the quiet he needed in order to properly think.

The office and its other occupant faded from his immediate awareness and he chased down possibilities, tearing them apart, examining them for flaws, discarding them bit by bit until he came to the only logical conclusion.

“No,” he said firmly, refocusing. “We don’t know what Ms. Hawkins knows. Until we do, until we can secure her, we have something that can be used against us, no matter what we do with Jim.”

“Then what do we do about her?” Gabriel asked.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured, turning his chair just enough to gaze out the long windows of his office, out to the river in the near distance, before turning back, meeting Gabriel’s eyes squarely. “Yet.”


	24. Chapter 24

He should have known this would happen.

Greg Lestrade pinched his nose with a sigh, flipping over a page in the unnecessarily thick file.

He _had_ known it would happen, because it always did, but somewhere deep in the part of his heart that was miraculously untainted by years’ worth of police cynicism, he also always hoped that it wouldn’t.

The problem with running public campaigns about cold cases is that it brought out the nutters.

Liars, pranksters, attention-seekers, story-tellers, the delusional. Ranging anywhere from people who had nothing better to do with their time to those who genuinely thought they were helping and desperately wanted to do so.

It was amazing, he thought, how many people had managed to see Richard Mitchell despite Mitchell having vanished three years ago.

Lestrade scanned through one report from a woman convinced Mitchell had communed with her from the afterlife and had told her he’d been murdered by Russian mobsters working for NASA. It gave Lestrade a brief moment’s pleasure to imagine an American space exploration organization sending Russian gangsters after a low-level London street thug. Perhaps the moon landing had been faked, after all. And Richard Mitchell had been the one person with proof.

It gave him even more pleasure to imagine firing the PC who had put this file together for him – this was a waste of his time. It was a waste of everyone’s time, of course, but he was a DI, and his time was worth a lot more.

There were far more valuable things he could be doing.

Like being at home, sleeping.

“Sally!” he bellowed, sitting back in his chair, ignoring the twinges in his neck that meant he really should get up and move around a bit. “Sally!”

Sally Donovan ambled to his half-open door, poking her head in and raising an eyebrow. Not an even a ‘yes, sir?’ he noted without any real irritation. It was late, they were all tired, and she knew him more than well enough to recognize the tone of his voice as passing off stupid work.

“Take this,” he said, flipping the folder shut and handing it over. “Do something with it.”

“Do what?” she asked.

“Burn it?” he suggested. “Offer it up as a sacrifice to whatever gods there are for police officers in hopes we’ll get a _real_ lead?”

She gave him a wry half smile, tucking the file under her arm and brandishing a piece of paper with her other hand.

“I think your prayers have already been answered. This one looks legitimate. Just came in, about twenty minutes ago.”

“Let’s have it then,” Lestrade sighed. Looking legitimate wasn’t the same was being legitimate, which both of them knew well. “And pass that nutter file off to some PC wasting his time,” he added, nodding at the folder. “We both have better things to do.”

“With pleasure,” she replied, flashing him a grin before she was gone. Lestrade sighed again, this time more deeply, resigning himself to the report in front of him.

He felt an unexpected but genuine surge of hope as he skimmed the report – it had come from a barista in east London, who’d had a customer matching Richard Mitchell’s description. She’d seen him on the news two days before seeing him in person, and had only put the pieces together when a different missing person’s bulletin had jogged her memory.

There was no mention of psychic impressions or ghostly visitations and Lestrade doubted she was lying, because the witness herself had admitted she might be mistaken.

But the most satisfying part was that the report included the fact that the café had CCTV.

If Richard Mitchell had been there, the security cameras would have picked it up. Which meant the Met would be able to pick _him_ up.

Lestrade put the report on top of a pile of other files that needed to be dealt with. He’d follow up with it in the morning, and send some PCs to speak to the barista and collect the security footage. There was nothing to be done about it now, and he could see Sally Donovan striding back towards his office, everything in her posture telling him that he was going to have something much more pressing – and far more relevant – to deal with in very short order.

* * *

 

It was late when John gave up waiting for Sherlock at home and tracked him down at his office.

He took a cab, which he knew would annoy Sherlock, because – as Sherlock had pointed out on more than one occasion – he had a driver for a reason.

But Gerald was Sherlock’s driver, not John’s, and John disliked calling him at all hours. For all he knew, Gerald had been dismissed for the night – it wasn’t unheard of for Sherlock to spend the night at his office.

It _was_ unusual for him not to notify John, so the doctor half suspected his partner would have come home at some point, although it may not have been until the early hours of the morning. Enough time for Sherlock to get the few hours of sleep he required, shower, shave and change before he was back out the door.

It normally didn’t annoy John when Sherlock did that, because he knew it meant his partner was making an effort when he was in the middle of some demanding or tricky project.

It _did_ annoy him today, partially because it was the first time Sherlock hadn’t come home without calling or texting while Charles was in London.

John was irritated at himself for having noticed that, but trying to shake the realization hadn’t worked. He didn’t actually think Sherlock’s absence had anything to do with Charles – at least not on a personal level – because Sherlock wouldn't be that stupid or arrogant, and John didn’t think Charles would be either.

But also the conversation with Dominique about bodyguards had gotten to John, a sliver of mistrust and suspicion worming its way into his brain, and all day he’d caught himself looking for an unknown and unidentifiable shadow. He’d _felt_ like he was being watched, and part of him wanted to believe it was just the suggestion, but some long-honed military instinct was warning him of danger.

The feeling ebbed when he let himself into Sherlock’s office building, where a bored security guard greeted him and sent him up without question. John wondered if he should be annoyed by that – anyone entering the building should have been subjected to the same scrutiny, but it _was_ Sherlock’s building and the guards all knew John on sight, and knew he was the owner’s partner.

Irritated as John was with Sherlock at the moment, he had to admit that being linked to Sherlock opened a lot of doors, both literally and figuratively.

But not all. Some doors he had to take care of opening himself.

He knocked on the closed door of Sherlock’s office, sighing when he received no response. There was no sliver of light coming from beneath the door, but only because there was no gap, however tiny, for it to do so.

Sherlock valued his privacy, but John had no inclinations to give him that privacy right now.

He pushed the door open, unsurprised to find that Sherlock was there, the large office illuminated only by the small lamp on the desk, casting most of the room into shadows. The faint illumination caught the angles in Sherlock’s face, turning them into the same interplay between dark and light, making him look sharper than usual.

He was half turned away from John, as if he’d been moving to face the window but hadn’t quite followed all the way through, staring instead at the wall to the left of his desk, palms pressed together and the tips of his index fingers brushing his lips.

John cleared his throat, mildly annoyed but not really surprised when he got no reaction. Aside from breathing and blinking, Sherlock wasn’t moving at all, a sure sign that he’d been like this for hours, gone away in his mind, chasing down some elusive problem and trying to wrestle a solution out of it.

John closed the door gently, padding across the office to sit in one of the comfortable chairs that faced Sherlock’s desk. It didn’t surprise him that he received no immediate response.

He waited a couple of minutes to see if his partner would pick up on him. When that didn’t happen, John leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, gaze trained intently on his partner.

“Sherlock,” he said firmly. “ _Sherlock_.”

Nothing – not for another long moment. Then the barest flicker based over his partner’s blank expression, barely there, a brief distraction. John took it, knowing exactly how to use it.

“Sherlock,” he said again, more forcefully, not giving Sherlock the chance to refocus. Sherlock blinked, and John saw the moment where his partner registered his voice, pulling him away from whatever he’d been so caught up in.

Grey eyes slid sideways to glare at him; other than that, Sherlock didn’t move. John caught the irritation there and was surprised by it – normally, Sherlock wasn’t bothered when John was the one bringing him back from wherever he’d gone to in his head.

John cocked an eyebrow, something of a challenge, and Sherlock sighed softly, his body relaxing as he turned to face John fully, his hands and forearms on his desk, fingers interlaced.

“You’re here late,” Sherlock commented.

“I– _I’m_ here late? _You’re_ here late!”

“I do work here,” Sherlock pointed out. John gave an exasperated sigh, sitting back in his chair. Sherlock had every capacity to derail him – and to piss him off even more.

John wasn’t in the mood for either.

“Do you know Dominique has bodyguards?” he demanded.

Sherlock looked confused by this sudden non sequitur, eyes narrowing slightly as he appeared to scan John’s words for some hidden meaning.

“Yes,” he finally said.

“And?” John pressed.

“And what, John?”

“Do I?”

Sherlock gave him another puzzled glare, as if trying to figure out whether John was having him on.

“Yes, of course you do,” he replied.

“ _What?_ ”

“Have you never noticed them?”

“What?! No! Sherlock, you can’t just– assign someone to follow me around!”

“I don’t see why not,” Sherlock said, a cool hint to his voice. “Given that’s precisely what I’ve done.”

“Because–” John pushed himself to his feet, suddenly feeling trapped between the desk and his chair, by the low lighting in the office that made it so necessary to focus on Sherlock. “Because I don’t want strangers following me around everywhere! I don’t bloody need that!”

“John, you are affiliated with me, professionally, but far more importantly, personally. There are people – admittedly extraordinarily unwise people – who would be willing to use you against me. It’s far easier to simply not give them that opportunity.”

“Sherlock, I was in the army! I don’t bloody _need_ bodyguards!”

Sherlock sighed, giving his head a small shake.

“And when you were in the army and were required to leave the base, did you do so alone, without a protective detail? Or were you accompanied by an armed guard?”

“I–” John started, then huffed, balling his hands into fists. “That’s different.”

“How?” Sherlock asked, as if genuinely curious.

“Afghanistan was a _war zone_ , Sherlock. This is London!”

Sherlock stared at him, surprised that John didn’t at all understand flickering across his features.

“You have been with me for three years, John, and yet you still believe that?”

“It’s different,” John retorted.

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock agreed. “It’s much harder to identify potential threats in London. Have you forgotten what happened to Jamie?”

“That was Jim! You told me he was out of the picture!”

“He is, but he’s not the only person who could cause us problems, John. This isn’t about mistrusting you. It’s about not trusting anyone else not to see you as a target because of your relationship with me.”

John gave a sharp, dry laugh at Sherlock’s unintentional echoing of Dominique’s words.

“I don’t want them,” he said bluntly.

“But you have them,” Sherlock replied. “John. I will not allow you to come to any harm because of me. This is one of the ways I assure that won’t happen. You would do the same for me, I imagine, if our situations were reversed.”

John sighed, feeling some of the anger dissipate, some of it shifting into a stab of resentment. Sherlock was right, John _would_ do the same to keep his partner safe, if the tables were turned, but he was annoyed at that fact being used against him.

And by the realization that Sherlock wasn’t going to back down on this. _Hell_ , John thought, _why would he? It’s been years, probably._

“You should have told me about them,” he said.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I apologize for that. I assumed you’d be aware of the situation. I was wrong.”

“Too bloody right you were,” John snapped. “Who are they?”

“If I told you that, I’d have to replace them,” Sherlock said, shaking his head and holding up his hands placatingly when John drew a breath to interrupt. “John, this isn’t about mistrusting you either. If you know who they are, you _will_ look out for them, which will make them conspicuous to others. The fact that you have never noticed them is beneficial – they’re less likely to be identified that way.”

“Jesus,” John muttered, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Sherlock, this is _my_ life.”

“It is,” Sherlock said. “And I’d very much like you to keep it.”

John sighed harshly, flexing his hands into fists again before forcing himself to release them and meet Sherlock’s gaze squarely.

“Do they follow me everywhere?”

“No, not always. Generally not when you’re with me, because I do appreciate some unobserved time with you. Not once you’re home – in the building I mean, not just the flat – nor when you’re here.”

“What about the island?” John demanded. The one in The Bahamas Sherlock had purchased just for them, where the only other person who spent significant amounts of time there was the caretaker who stayed when they weren’t there.

“No,” Sherlock said. “The entire point of the island is there’s only the two of us – we’d notice if anyone else was there. With eight million people in London, we don’t have the luxury of identifying when someone else is more than simply a stranger in the crowd.”

John sighed again, conceding defeat. He’d known it was useless to begin with, but he wasn’t willing to let it go without some resistance. Sherlock might get his way – as usual – but he should at least know that John wasn’t entirely happy about it..

“Fine,” John said with what he knew was bad grace, but didn’t miss the barest flicker of relief over Sherlock’s features. “And you were right with what you said earlier – it _is_ late. You can go back to wherever you were, if you want. I’m going home.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

When John left for work the next morning, Gerald was waiting for him.

John stopped short, just over the threshold of the building’s main entrance, not quite managing to withhold a sigh. Gerald looked unperturbed – as always – and, John noted with some irritation, not even a little tired.

Sherlock not needing as much rest, John could accept, but he wondered darkly if there was some kind of secret drug that Sherlock gave all of his people that eliminated the need for sleep.

It would certainly explain a lot.

Like how Gerald could look so well rested after having been instructed to collect John from Sherlock’s office late the night before and appearing again in time to take the doctor to work.

Given what he knew now about Sherlock’s tendency for secret drugs, the idea that Sherlock was behind this somehow – not Gerald’s presence, but his apparent ability to do without much sleep – wouldn’t have surprised John.

He sighed again, admitting to himself that Sherlock had consciously sought out people like him. There was no reason the similarities had to stop with intelligence and a flexible approach to the law.

John considered refusing the ride, savouring the thought of doing so for just a moment, even as he knew it would be pointless. He’d tried to protest last night – after all, London had a very functional tube system, and he could have taken a cab if he’d missed the last trains – but arguing hadn’t got him anywhere.

Sherlock had a way of insisting that was able to transcend minor technicalities like not actually being there to enforce the decision.

John was being chauffeured, whether he wanted it or not.

That sparked a simmering resentment that he knew was stupid – of all the things he could complain about in his life, this was hardly a hardship. In fact, he reminded himself, it wasn’t a hardship at all.

But as much as he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from chafing, at least a little.

It wasn’t really the ride itself – god knew Gerald had driven him plenty of places before, with or without Sherlock.

It was the lack of choice, the way Sherlock blithely bent the world to his liking without asking what John wanted.

And if John had pressed the case that this _wasn’t_ what he wanted, Sherlock would have steamrolled over his objections by pretending they didn’t exist or pointing out how stupid they were.

He’d get his way no matter what John said, and it annoyed John even more to realize that was the best reason to simply go along with it.

He got into the car, forcing a smile and thanking Gerald – after all, it wasn’t the chauffeur’s fault.

The trip was quick, and John was tempted not to bother going into his office, but to make the five-minute walk to Sherlock’s office building and tell his partner off. Sherlock hadn’t come home the night before – John wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that, given the whole situation with the bodyguards.

He shook his head, abandoning the idea of storming into Sherlock’s office and let himself into his, surprised to find Mary already there.

She smiled and greeted him brightly, and John noted that _she_ didn’t look tired either. It was probably one of the reasons Sherlock had picked her for an interview.

John gave himself an internal shake; he had no idea what Mary had been up to the night before, and for all he knew, she was well rested because she’d gotten a solid eight hours of restful sleep.

And hadn’t, for example, gone partway across London to tell off her boyfriend for having her followed by some very effective and apparently invisible bodyguards.

“You’re in early,” he settled for saying, keeping his tone light and matching her smile.

“Your filing system is still a mystery,” she replied, gesturing to a pile of files spread out before her.

“Sorry,” John sighed.

“Don’t be,” Mary replied. “It’s part of the reason I have a job. Plus, I think I’m cracking the code. But it might be worth digitizing all of this, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not suggesting you do it, John,” she said with a wry smile. “It would fall under my job description. And I can be handy with a database, when I need to be.”

“Could you do it?” he asked, feeling a rush of relief when she nodded. “Mary, you’re a bloody miracle worker.”

Mary laughed.

“Careful, John, or you’ll make a good case for giving me a raise.”

“I think that case is making itself,” John replied. Not that Sherlock would bat an eyelash if John requested a higher salary for his nurse, and he probably should. He made a mental note to look into it later. “What do I have on for today?”

“Nothing until ten-thirty,” she replied.

“Good,” John said. “Let’s go for breakfast.”

“Sorry?” Mary asked, surprised.

“Breakfast,” John repeated. “First meal of the day, commonly cited as the most important – although that’s debatable. Still important, though. If you’ve already eaten, you could join me for a cup of tea. It’s on me, of course, and I guarantee your boss will give you the time away from your desk.”

Mary smiled again, stacking her files aside.

“Well, I don’t suppose that piece of toast I had this morning will get me very far.”

“No, it won’t,” John said. “Come on, get your things and let’s go.”

* * *

 

“No time for breakfast this morning?” Mary asked as the server placed a large plate of steaming food in front of John. He eyed the full English appreciatively before giving her a wry smile.

“Not really,” he said, although that wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t been particularly hungry, so he’d opted for laying in bed longer, doing not much of anything at all. “Sherlock was working late last night, and I popped over to visit him for a bit.”

Mary raised an eyebrow and John felt himself colour.

“Not like that,” he said hurriedly. “Just to chat.” That was more true, but smoothed over the nature of the chat.

“Well,” Mary said, digging into her eggs, “I suppose he’s a busy man.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” John sighed, taking a sip of his tea, appreciating the warmth and the caffeine kick. “Sometimes I have to take what I can get.”

“Don’t we all?” Mary asked. “But it can’t be that bad, can it?”

“No, no,” John said. “Not really. Not usually. He’s just… well, he’s just Sherlock. He tends to get caught up in things. He sometimes loses track of the rest of the world. Eating, sleeping. That sort of thing.”

“But not you, surely.”

“Ah, well sometimes,” John said, shifting a bit in his seat, feeling somewhat awkward at having raised the topic at all. “It’s not intentional.”

“I believe that,” Mary said. “He doesn’t strike me as someone who does anything unintentionally.”

“No,” John said with a chuckle. “He’s always got some kind of agenda. Or ten.”

“No wonder he gets distracted,” Mary said seriously, but with a twinkle of laughter in her eye that gave her away. “He must be a pretty intense person.”

“ _That_ is probably the best way I’ve ever heard him described. Although he wouldn’t like it.”

“No?”

“You didn’t mention that he was a genius,” John pointed out.

“Is he?” Mary asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Absolutely,” John said. “Most brilliant person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s high praise,” Mary said with a smile. “How _did_ you two meet? I’m imagining some glamorous party, loads of champagne, him sweeping you off your feet…”

John laughed, shaking his head.

“No, nothing like that,” he replied – her mental image couldn’t have been further from the truth. He could remember the miserable little bedsit all too well, the cramped and caged feeling from having nothing to do and nowhere to go, the way Sherlock had waltzed in, with Gabe, each of them in suits that probably cost more than John would have paid for an entire year’s rent there.

Sherlock hadn’t so much as swept John off his feet as bowled him over with an ultimatum, one he knew John wasn’t in a position to refuse.

“He was looking for a new doctor for the firm,” he said, glossing over the details to get to the bare truth. “I needed a job. He found me through my sister – she’s a solicitor.”

The connection was ingenuous, John knew, but he didn’t need to drag Harry’s past into it, and the whole experience had pushed her to make some serious, and difficult, changes in her life. She was much better now, although John knew it was still hard, and he made a point of staying in touch. He didn’t think they’d ever be particularly close, but they got on better now than they had in years.

“Ah well,” Mary said. “That’s more realistic, though, isn’t it? Life can’t be like the films.”

“Don’t let Sherlock hear you say that,” John replied.

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t meet me somewhere posh and glitzy, but I think that’s partly what made me stand out. The rest of his life… It’s filled with the kinds of things you were just imagining. Sometimes it’s like dating a film star, only most people don’t know who he is.”

“An international man of mystery,” Mary said.

“Definitely,” John agreed.

“Well go on then, tell me about all of his daring international exploits. Or yours?”

“Mine?” John asked with a laugh.

“You were an army doctor – you must have some.”

“None that are fit for polite company. Even if that polite company is a nurse.”

“Well, Sherlock then,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “It _is_ an international real estate firm, after all. He must travel a lot.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” John said, shaking his head as he drained the last of his tea. “And not as much as he used to. It’s mostly around Europe now, and mostly for meetings.” Mary wrinkled her nose but John shook his head. “I don’t think he minds – when he travels for himself, he’d rather just relax than play the tourist.”

He had a sudden image of Sherlock on their island, dozing in the hammock that was slung in the shallow water under the shade of several trees, fingertips dipped into the water from when he’d been trailing his hand through it before drifting off.

The memory was so sharp and clear that John had to swallow hard and push it aside. Even just thinking about it in someone else’s company felt like giving a secret away.

“Well, meetings around Europe must still be a far sight different than the kind of travel you used to do,” Mary commented, oblivious to the sudden derailment in John’s train of thought.

He forced a small chuckle, nodding.

“You could say that,” he agreed, and felt the muscles along his spine tighten at another sudden memory, this one much older, of Sherlock commenting to him that he didn’t operate in war zones, that it was too risky.

Sherlock hadn’t been in Afghanistan – as far as John knew – but he _had_ been in Pakistan. It might have been unconnected; there were certainly reasons for Sherlock to do business in Pakistan, both legitimate and illegal.

But something had happened to him there.

Something that still gave him nightmares, ten years later.

John felt an unease coil in his stomach, dampening his appetite.

“What about you?” he asked, forcing his focus back to the conversation. “We’ve been talking about me – well me and Sherlock – this whole time. Have you travelled much?”

“A bit,” Mary said. “Not as much as I’d like, maybe, but I try.”

“Go on then,” John said. “What was your favourite trip? Tell me everything.”

* * *

 

It was easy enough to slip back into the office without arousing suspicion. The security guards all knew her by now, and it was London, where people came and went at all hours. If Mary wanted to do some extra work or had forgotten something or was killing time before meeting up with a friend, the guards didn’t care. She was pleasant to them, and made sure to chat briefly (never too long), so they were inclined to think kindly about her – when they thought about her at all.

Sherlock’s medical file was back in the stack she’d locked in her desk drawer, but ever so slightly askew amongst the others from where John had slipped it back in. He’d done a good job, and had she been anyone else – nothing more than a nurse, for example – she’d never have noticed.

Of course, she’d also been looking for it, and anticipating him staying behind to go through it. As the doctor for Sherlock’s firm, he had every reason and right, of course. Technically, he wouldn’t be Sherlock’s doctor – that was still listed in the file as Michael Stamford – but she doubted that John was concerned with those particular technicalities.

Sherlock was unlikely to be, either.

John had likely been through this file before, at least once, when he was first hired. It wasn’t unusual that he refresh himself of its contents, but the timing was.

John had just accidentally dosed Sherlock with some illegal medication, medication he’d had no idea that Sherlock had, and that Sherlock had acquired from Irene Adler. Mary wondered what Irene’s part was in all of this was – if anything beyond the drugs. She made a mental note to check into it, but it wasn’t nearly as important as the information in front of her.

John had also spent a good part of the conversation this morning talking about travel – at Mary’s gentle prompting, of course. He couldn’t come out and simply say he knew something about Sherlock’s past, and wouldn’t, not to her.

Not yet.

She wondered how much John knew – it certainly wasn’t the entire story, or he wouldn’t have been searching through his partner’s file for medical details. His destination had been the same as Mary’s: a decade ago, when the incident in Pakistan had happened. Stamford had kept fairly detailed medical records, and for all his disorganization, John did too, but the more recent pages had been skipped past in favour of this older information.

There were faint, fresh creases on the edges of the pages where John had held them between thumb and forefinger while scanning for what he was looking for. Like the placement of the file in the stack, Mary wouldn’t have seen it if she hadn’t been watching for it and hadn’t known the signs. John, secure in his knowledge that she’d never notice, hadn’t thought to disguise his actions.

Privately, Mary was a bit disappointed in him. Sherlock Holmes, she thought, would have prevented anyone from figuring out his movements just out of habit. He may not suspect her in particular, but he would suspect the possibility someone might want to know what he’d been up to.

And he hadn’t wanted anyone to know what he’d been up to in Pakistan. There was no mention of it, no records of unusual travel vaccinations – but that, Mary noted with some satisfaction towards Holmes’ thorough nature – was because he kept his vaccinations up-to-date. Given the amount he did have to travel for work, it made sense, and could be passed off as nothing more than being responsible for his own health, all while masking any trips that would otherwise seem odd or out of place.

There was no other information from that time, no mention of injuries, medications, or rehabilitation therapies. Whether those records existed or not was irrelevant at the moment – she knew Holmes had been injured, and suspected the extent of his injuries had been worse than she remembered. She’d only seen him the once, briefly, and not immediately before his miraculous escape.

Mary frowned, allowing herself to be annoyed by that. At the time, circumstances had drawn her attention away, and she hadn’t been particularly interested in the young British man being held hostage. She’d surmised at the time that the British government had been informed, and she’d probably been right about that – Mycroft Holmes must have known _something_ about his baby brother being abducted so close a warzone.

But how had he escaped? All of her contacts and the discrete enquires suggested it hadn’t been a military intervention. It _might_ still have been – kept so tightly under wraps that only a handful of people knew about it. But the fact that she’d heard nothing, not a single whisper about it, suggested it probably wasn’t.

_Someone_ had swept in, invisible, and scooped Sherlock Holmes from the grasp of his captors, returning him to safety.

Such as it was.

And where had they returned him to? That information didn’t appear to exist, either. Whoever had taken him and wherever they’d taken him to, they must have left a trace.

Mary, with all of her resources, had yet to find it.

She stifled the irritation, refocusing on the file. Ten years ago, Sherlock Holmes was, for all intents and purposes, a healthy young man without any medical issues.

Except for one thing.

There it was, dated to several months after she’d seen him in Pakistan, innocuous to almost anyone – anyone but her, and John.

His records listed the identification of a small, precancerous mole that needed to be removed. There were notes about the biopsy and the surgery – which would have been very minor, had it actually happened – and follow-up notes about the recovery, including some details about plastic surgery to remove the scar.

The timeline was wrong.

Unless Holmes had left it a very long time, there was far too much recovery time between the initial surgery and the plastic surgery to account for such a minor procedure. Mary very much doubted he was the kind of man to let that go for a day longer than necessary. He wouldn’t want a scar marring his body, and certainly had the means to have the problem resolved.

She didn’t doubt there’d been plastic surgery; the scars left from his captivity must have been vicious, and he wouldn’t want that reminder written all over his body. John certainly would have noticed them if they’d still been there, too, and it would have warranted an explanation. Something like that would be difficult to pass off as an accident or a minor altercation, and explaining the situation was clearly not something Holmes was inclined to do.

Mary wondered where the surgery (or, very likely, surgeries) had been done – there was no mention of it, of course, and she suspected it had been somewhere else, maybe America. Somewhere he’d be unlikely to be recognized, even just in passing.

She followed the trail of information until its end, making a few more mental notes about the discrepancies. The painkillers Holmes had been prescribed following the initial surgery were stronger than necessary for the scale of the procedure. It was possible that Stamford had provided them at Holmes’ request, but Mary doubted it. There was no reason for them, not unless something else had happened, like an infection, but the notes about the post-op antibiotics gave no indication of that. Holmes also didn’t strike her as someone who indulged in that sort of thing unless he really needed to.

Beyond the dates and the painkillers, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

The file had the entire incident resolved within half a year. In reality, it would have been at least that long before he’d recovered enough from the initial injuries to have any follow-up surgeries at all.

But moving forward in time through the file, the next year or so was entirely uneventful, and the next entry was a routine physical, complete with exemplary blood work, which gave no indication whatsoever that anything had been so amiss.

She sighed to herself, sitting back in her chair and rubbing her eyes.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

She fished her second phone from the hidden inner pocket of her handbag, opening the camera. Unlike the one she used for calls and texts, this one was never connected to a network, and had had the capacity to do so completely removed.

She took a few careful photos of the relevant pages of Holmes’ medical file, then returned it neatly to the stack, locking it in her desk drawer again. For a moment, she let herself wonder what John Watson had made of this information, and what he planned to do with it. He was well-trained enough as a surgeon and a GP to know something was amiss in those notes, and Mary intended to use that knowledge to her advantage.

But not tonight, she decided, locking the office door behind her as she left. Better to let it simmer awhile, for the doubt to work itself into something substantial. In the meantime, the was a very appealing happy hour with some half-priced cocktails and some decent company just waiting for her to arrive.


	26. Chapter 26

It had been simmering slowly beneath the surface – although not for long, because things never moved slowly in Irene’s world. But for long enough. She’d known better than to force the realization; there were times when that worked, when stalking a problem, giving it no mercy, was the right solution.

There were times when that wasn’t.

She had let it go, let it take its own time without ignoring it altogether. Her mind needed to know she was watching, and waiting, not abandoning the issue, but simply giving it the space it needed to grow. For pieces to fall into place, for the picture to become clear.

If she were honest with herself – which she always was, because in her line of work, deception had very restrictive consequences – it had begun with the dinner at Mycroft and Angela’s.

And there it might have ended. Perhaps it did, in some other reality.

But not in hers.

It would have been much simpler if it had died there; Irene had very strong professional objections to Mycroft becoming entangled in Sherlock’s business. She’d seen where it had led once, halfway across the world and a breath away from death.

When Mycroft and Sherlock’s worlds collided, things became… complicated.

She didn’t like it, but that was scarcely relevant. Her opinion of the situation didn’t alter it, so she merely acknowledged the distaste and set it aside. For someone with her experience, both on and off the stage, that was a fairly simple task.

More difficult was what to do about it.

It was too unexpected to be mere chance, it was too organic to be completely set up. It was where coincidence and control met that things could get messy. Determining which factors were random and which weren’t was risky – one wrong move could tip off whoever was behind the parts of it that were being orchestrated behind the scenes.

But she knew a little something about that, too.

Unnoticed, her lips curled into a faint smile, a dull thrum of anticipation coursing through her.

She wasn’t alone in feeling it either. There was a reason Sherlock had chosen the path he had, and she understood that choice as intimately as she understood the choice she’d made in working for him.

He needed the challenge. The distraction. The chance to upset the tables without anyone knowing he’d ever even touched them.

And Irene knew full well he hadn’t had that chance lately.

Oh, there had been small things, here and there, but Sherlock would see those as means of keeping his hand in rather than real risks. He had distanced himself from it somewhat, largely because of Mycroft’s ill-advised attempt to pull him into a dangerous game with John there. It still surprised Irene, sometimes, how poorly Mycroft understood his baby brother.

But it could work in their favour, especially this time.

Mycroft hadn’t anticipated Janine Hawkins. None of them had. But Sherlock had the upper hand there – only he and a few trusted others knew about her. It would take some extraordinary circumstances for Mycroft to join that select group, and Sherlock would do whatever he could to keep that from happening.

Which was why he was going to go after Hawkins himself.

Irene had no real inclination to stop him, as dangerous as it was. Something needed to be done, after all – Magnussen was too close to all of this, even if he hadn’t set it up that way – and Sherlock was, unquestionably, the best person to do it.

If someone tried to stop him, Irene suspected he would do something more dangerous – and with much less forethought than he’d give this – if only as an outlet for the growing tedium.

He’d always been careful in his business, but he’d never been as domestic as he had been for the past three years with John. Whether Sherlock liked it or not, John Watson had made him more cautious, less willing to flaunt fate, to dance on the cliff’s edge.

It wasn’t the worst change that could have happened, but Irene could see it beginning to chafe somewhat.

Which meant she’d have to be ready.

It didn’t pay to be unprepared – she’d learned that once, right before her divorce, and didn’t intend to be caught out like that again. There were certainly skills she’d let slide when she’d been pregnant, practices she couldn’t keep up until Aaron had been born. He was nearly five months old now – more than old enough for her to start sharpening those skills again.

Irene checked on her son quickly, satisfied that he was still sleeping, and stepped quietly back into her living room to start putting her plans into motion.

* * *

 

Lestrade had played it carefully. His first instinct had been to head straight to Gabriel Mitchell’s flat and knock him off balance with the footage of Richard Mitchell from the café, just to see the look on the younger man’s face when presented with evidence that his missing brother was still alive.

To see what kind of surprise it was – shock that Richard would turn up after all this time, or shock that Richard would turn up at all, because he was supposed to be dead.

But he’d reined himself in; those kinds of cowboy tactics might be satisfying in the short term, but they’d also get him nowhere fast. Mitchell had solicitors. Holmes’ company had an army of them, probably on permanent standby, and Lestrade knew he wouldn’t get much past showing Mitchell the evidence before he was stopped by a wall of attorneys.

Not to mention it tipped his hand. The case file was very clear that Gabriel Mitchell and his brother had no love lost between them. If the sister, Marian, hadn’t also lived in London, Lestrade might have been able to make the case that he was seeing the relative physically closest, but he didn’t have that story to fall back on either.

So, dutifully, he rang Mitchell’s solicitor, and made an appointment with Mitchell and the lawyer to come to him. In a way, it made things easier. He was in an environment he controlled, and no matter how powerful Mitchell was, any visitor to Scotland Yard always felt a little uneasy. Something about all the secure rooms and areas with no mobile coverage.

He hadn’t mentioned to the solicitor’s assistant that Richard Mitchell appeared to have surfaced; all Gabriel Mitchell knew was that this had something to do with his brother’s case. Fresh evidence.

Let him stew on that for a bit.

Although, if he _was_ innocent, then letting him stew was useless.

Still, Lestrade was willing to take that chance, and stress was stress.

Mitchell might be innocent when it came to his brother’s whereabouts, but Lestrade wouldn’t believe for a second that he was innocent altogether. Holmes was dirty – even if Lestrade couldn’t prove that. His people would be too, at least those close to him.

Lestrade hadn’t expected Mitchell to bring someone close to him along. He raised his eyebrows at the appearance of a young blond woman – Mitchell’s fiancée, Lestrade knew from his more up-to-date information. Mitchell introduced them pleasantly enough, but Lestrade had been a cop for a long time – bringing Sandra Casey along hadn’t been Mitchell’s idea and he wasn’t entirely thrilled by it.

That made two of them.

There was no sense in protesting though. The update on the case wasn’t sensitive or graphic, so he settled the four of them into an interview room, flipping open Richard’s file but keeping it with him for a moment.

“Mister Mitchell, I’ll be blunt. We had a tip on your brother’s whereabouts recently and it seems to have panned out.”

If Mitchell’s startled reaction was feigned, then he could have won awards for it. Casey looked shocked, too, and even the solicitor seemed mildly surprised, which Lestrade assumed meant he’d been taken completely off-guard.

“Where?” Mitchell demanded.

“East London,” Lestrade replied, pushing the file across the table now. “At a café. We have good video surveillance and an eyewitness, but she doesn’t know him. We need someone who does to confirm.” He tapped the still from the security footage. It was decent quality, but probably not quite enough to get a complete confirmation.

“Jesus,” Mitchell muttered under his breath, sitting back in his chair, fingers twitching slightly as if he were going to push the file away but managed to restrain himself at the last minute.

“Inspector,” the solicitor stepped in smoothly. “Richard Mitchell has been missing for three years. If his disappearance wasn’t by his choice, why not go to the police immediately? He didn’t have any outstanding warrants at the time of his disappearance, and certainly a missing man couldn’t accrue any without raising any red flags.”

Lestrade sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“I’d hate to speculate,” he said, ignoring Mitchell’s quiet snort. “He’s your brother, Mister Mitchell. Any ideas?”

“None, and I don’t really care,” Mitchell snapped. Lestrade’s gaze flickered to Sandra Casey, who pulled the file towards her gently, frowning at the photo.

“Inspector, when was this?” she asked. Mitchell glanced at her, looking surprised.

“Last Thursday,” Lestrade replied. “Why?”

“I’ve seen him too.”

“ _What?_ ” Mitchell demanded, turning his attention to her; Lestrade noted the slight surprise in her expression but the lack of any other real tension – she wasn’t alarmed by her fiancé’s reaction, which told the DI both that, no matter what he might think of Mitchell, the young man treated her well, and that she knew about his strained relationship with his brother.

“Where?” Lestrade asked. “And when?”

“Over the weekend, at the hospital. If it was him. I can’t be sure, not from this photo.”

“What hospital?” Lestrade asked, pulling the file back to him. He knew where she worked, but it would be useful if Mitchell didn’t know that. “And exactly where?”

“London Bridge Hospital. On the long-term ward. I was on the nurse’s desk and he was visiting a patient.”

“Did he speak to you?” Lestrade asked, before Mitchell could speak – probably to ask the same question.

“Just to ask for directions to a room. He was visiting a patient.”

“What patient?”

She hesitated, looking between Mitchell and the solicitor.

“I’m not sure I can say.”

“You can for a police investigation,” Lestrade assured her, earning a dark glare from Mitchell. Casey hesitated again, then gave him the necessary information. Lestrade jotted it down dutifully, then flipped the case file shut.

“Ms. Casey, you understand you may be a potential witness?” he asked. She looked startled – he doubted she’d thought of that – but she nodded anyway. “I’ll look into this, but I’m going to need to speak to you further one way or another. We’ll need to speak to that patient, as well – and any of your colleagues who were working that shift with you or who were on duty during visitor hours between now and then. We’ll be back in touch.”

“Through our solicitor,” Mitchell said.

“That would slow things down–” Lestrade tried, knowing full well he’d be overridden.

“Through me,” the solicitor said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Through your solicitor then,” Lestrade agreed shortly. “And if you see Richard again – if _either_ of you see him, or even think you see him, you _will_ contact me about it. And in the meantime, do us all a favour and try not to leave the country, will you?”

* * *

 

“How?!” Gabriel snarled, hands curling into fists, the tension carrying up his arms and across his shoulders as he paced, movements sharp, agitated. “Tell me _how_ , Sherlock!”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, keeping his tone plain, matter-of-fact.

“ _He’s supposed to be dead!_ ” Gabriel shouted, spinning back, throwing his arms wide, green eyes blazing.

Sherlock stood, putting them on even footing. Staying sitting – even though it was his own office – would come across as patronizing, or as unconcerned.

He was _not_ unconcerned. This wasn’t a coincidence – neither the appearance of a man who looked like Richard Mitchell, or the fact that he’d made himself obvious at the hospital in which Sandra now worked.

Someone had set this up, blindsided them with it _and_ tied it back to the police – and it had left Sherlock with no real information.

Not yet.

“He _is_ dead,” Sherlock said, tone still calm, belying the rage below, the indignation, the sudden urgency to deal with this _now_ , to raze London to the ground if it meant finding the imposter and eliminating him.

Whoever had set this up wouldn’t be expecting that response, but it probably wouldn’t disappoint them, either.

He wasn’t going to give anyone that satisfaction. Or the satisfaction of seeing this through.

Whatever their end game was, he was going to change the rules.

Gabriel raked his hands through his hair – they were shaking, Sherlock noticed. The barely restrained rage was obvious, but it was also easier than the terror it covered.

“It wasn’t _him_ ,” Sherlock stressed.

“What if–” Gabriel began, but Sherlock cut him off with a sharp shake of his head, killing that suspicion before it had a chance to grow any more.

“Cheryl does not make mistakes. Richard is dead. Whoever that was _isn’t_ him.”

“Then _who_?” Gabriel snapped. “Sherlock, he is fucking following my _fiancée_!”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

It was not the answer Gabriel wanted – even if Sherlock had been stripped of his observational genius, it would have been blindingly obvious – but it was the only one he had.

Gabriel curled his hands around the back of one the leather chairs, creasing the material beneath his fingers. He took a deep breath, muscled in his jaw working, clearly restraining himself from speaking – ten years ago, when they first met, he would have demanded Sherlock do something immediately, have been ready to charge out on his own and burn everything in his path, regardless of the consequences.

A decade had changed and tempered him, but the ghost of his brother, only three years old, wasn’t as easy to shake.

Especially when someone was stupid enough to make it personal.

Sherlock understood that.

All too well.

“What are we going to do?” Gabriel asked instead.

“Someone has made a very stupid choice,” Sherlock replied. “We’re going to do what we’re best at, Gabriel. We are going to fix it. And _you_ are going to leave me to handle it.”

“What?” Gabriel demanded. “No! Sherlock –“

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock stressed, shifting his stance slightly to emphasize the hint of menace in his tone. It wasn’t something he used against his own people often, but it had its place, and he needed to bring Gabriel to heel. “Whatever this is, I want you no nearer to it than you absolutely have to be.”

“He’s my brother!”

“No he is not. Your brother is dead. Whoever this is, he’s trying to get to you. We cannot give him that opportunity.”

“So, what? I’m supposed to just do nothing?”

“You will cooperate with the police – as much as is reasonable. And you will support Sandra.”

“I can’t follow her around everywhere, Sherlock!”

“Of course not,” Sherlock sighed. “We have specialists for that. She _will_ be safe, Gabriel. You will ensure that she _feels_ safe.”

Gabriel gave a harsh sigh, pursing his lips, the muscles in his jaw jumping. Sherlock understood the desire – the _need_ \- to fix this, to bend the world to his whim in whatever way necessary to bring him the answer.

But that would be disastrous. They were walking too close to the cliff’s edge as it was, with Janine Hawkins and Charles Magnussen.

He couldn’t believe this was entirely coincidence. Richard Mitchell had worked for Jim, at least for a short time. _That_ hadn’t been coincidental either – Jim had hired Richard specifically to get to Gabriel when the younger man had been injured and vulnerable.

They were vulnerable now – all of them. Jim was at the center of this again, however unwittingly. And now the police were involved, even if only tangentially.

“You have work,” Sherlock reminded Gabriel. “The FBI would still appreciate our help. Among other things. You need to know as little about this as possible, for Lestrade’s sake. I _will_ handle this, Gabriel.”

Gabriel was still for a long moment – too long for Sherlock’s taste – but relented with a curt nod, fingers tightening against the leather upholstery again, his gaze dark, warning.

Sherlock _would_ find whoever was responsible, whoever had had the sheer arrogance to challenge them so brazenly.

And then he intended to make them regret that decision.


	27. Chapter 27

It had been a long day.

That certainly wasn’t uncommon in Sherlock’s world, where ever-changing circumstances needed to be managed and kept aligned so that they didn’t intersect with one another or collapse on themselves.

He’d scarcely noticed the previous evening blending into night, then merging with another day that had slipped past like the blink of an eye.

That wasn’t unusual, either – but what _was_ unusual was how much he felt it now that he’d properly resurfaced, with the familiar sense of dislocation at finding himself in his office, sat behind his desk, mind still abuzz from the paths it had been racing down, the hidden corners of the world it had been exposing.

He shifted his shoulders and allowed himself a private grimace at the stiffness that had lodged itself in his muscles. A momentary longing for John’s skilled hands made Sherlock startle inwardly, and he reached for his phone, alarmed that he might have let an entire day slip by without alerting John that he would not be home.

His fears were allayed of course – he’d never actually forgotten to notify John, and the conversation they’d had via text came back to him as he scrolled through the messages. Some small part of him was annoyed at the relief he felt that he hadn’t relied on one single, curt message rather than a brief conversation. Surely John should understand that the work was important and occasionally had to come first.

_He cannot read your mind_ , Sherlock reminded himself.

That was a pity. But only sometimes.

Sherlock allowed himself a sigh and sat back, passing a hand over his eyes.

Perhaps he could text John now and ask the doctor to come in. It was late – late enough that there would be few people around to notice John joining him in his office. Tina was still here – there was a cold cup of tea sitting on his desk, and she wouldn’t have left before replacing it if he’d still been away in his mind – but he hardly cared about being discreet in front of her. She’d caught them in nearly compromising positions more than once, and it was hardly a secret that he and John were having sex.

But this time, Sherlock wanted a massage more than anything. He had people he could call – or have Tina call for him, rather – but he preferred John to any of them.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed, with a message from John.

_You home tonight? Going to the pub will Bill, so I’ll be back late. I’d invite you, but you’d be bored._

Sherlock sighed again, trying to quash the flicker of disappointment. He didn’t know when he’d be home and John was more than entitled to go out should he choose, but the idea of coming home and having John entirely to himself was always appealing.

Sherlock bit his lower lip lightly, thinking, then typed a quick reply.

_Yes, but I’m not sure when. Enjoy yourself._

John texted back with some ridiculous emoji that Sherlock would never admit to appreciating. He put his phone aside and shifted his shoulders, dislodging some of the discomfort, before calling for Tina, who opened his door with her usual promptness.

“Is Gabriel still here?” Sherlock asked, knowing full well the younger man would be. Not only did Gabriel have the problem of Victor’s elusive Russian assassin to contend with, Sherlock had instructed Tina to have Gabriel stay.

His memory for the work had always been like that – even when consumed by something else, he could recall his own actions so lucidly, but they struck him as somewhat removed, as if he were watching himself act from across a great distance.

Still, it was useful, because he was in charge regardless of where he was, either physically or mentally. Whether or not he was away in his mind, the work was _always_ important.

It was only other people who were worth ignoring.

Sherlock stood, pacing his office slowly while he waited for Gabriel, less out of unease than from a need to move and release the tension in his muscles. It was difficult to ignore the apprehension in the background, however, and he knew he would be stupid to do so.

There was too much happening right now – far too much for it to be coincidental. Sherlock was used to the demands on his time, used to having multiple pieces in play at any given moment, and even to the plots of others infringing on his world, needing to be dealt with.

But this all seemed too connected. Victor’s Russian. Jim Moriarty and Janine Hawkins. Richard Mitchell’s mysterious doppelganger. Charles Magnussen.

Sherlock could see himself in the middle of all of it, but that scarcely meant anything. By his own design, he was often in the middle of numerous plots – the problem here was that none of this was by his own design.

He had to consider that he _was_ the connection. But equally he had to consider that he was not. He could draw the same threads from others. Gabriel, particularly in his connection to his brother’s double, and to the fact that he’d seen Victor in person recently. Irene, who was connected to Jim Moriarty by their shared Irish citizenship, who had found Janine Hawkins, who had been at Mycroft and Angela’s when Mycroft had sprung Magnussen on them.

The connection could even be Mycroft himself. As much as including his brother annoyed him, Sherlock was disinclined to rule Mycroft out.

Mycroft had a hand in _everything._ Even if he was only connected tangentially, he was connected.

A flash of memory blindsided Sherlock, a fuzzy recollection of his brother’s face, etched with exhaustion and worry, the first time Sherlock had regained consciousness enough in the military hospital in Afghanistan to register his presence.

He repressed the memory mercilessly, suffocating it, smoothing over his reaction, his expression, and his stance in the moment between Gabriel knocking on the door and the younger man stepping into the office.

“Sit down,” Sherlock said without preamble, nodding at the leather chairs framing the small coffee table. “I’ve got a plan for Ms Hawkins.”

* * *

 

“It’s risky,” Gabriel said. Predictably.

Sherlock nodded smoothly, unperturbed. It _was_ risky, and pointing out the obvious was necessary.

The plan would be put into motion, but not until Sherlock was certain that every angle had been dissected, and not just by him.

It was rare, but occasionally he did miss something.

“Less risky than some of the alternatives,” Sherlock replied. They could not simply leave her – that had been out of the question since their first conversation regarding how to deal with Janine Hawkins – which left them only with the option of acting. “I can’t approach her directly, after all.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow pointedly.

“ _You_ don’t have to approach her at all,” he replied.

“I do,” Sherlock countered. “I am, quite simply, the best man for the job.”

At this, Gabriel raised both of his eyebrows. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, assessing his second-in-command, satisfied by the skepticism he saw written plainly on Gabriel’s features.

“Any one of us could do it,” Gabriel said, sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced.

“Untrue,” Sherlock replied. “At the moment, I cannot spare you to be away for several days at a time. Lestrade would notice, and although we could lean on him – not to mention our people in the Met – this is a delicate situation, which requires we treat it carefully.”

Gabriel’s knuckles whitened slightly as he tensed his fingers, before deliberately relaxing them.

“Sherlock, whoever this is impersonating Richard, we don’t know that it isn’t to drive you to doing exactly this.”

“We don’t,” Sherlock agreed, rising to circle his desk, leaning against the solid wooden frame. “But we can reasonably conclude – anyone attempting to manipulate me into this particular action wouldn’t be so obvious about it. Particularly if it were Magnussen, which you are clearly concerned about. Nor would this hypothetical person have any way of knowing that I would choose this option amongst all of the options I have considered. Very thoroughly, I might add.”

“They might know, if they were clever enough, and if they thought like you.”

“There is only one other person who knows me well enough to deduce my decisions with that much accuracy, and he is in this room with me,” Sherlock replied curtly.

Gabriel sighed and sat back, giving his head a quick shake.

“There are three of us, and you are well aware of that.”

Sherlock shrugged lightly, dismissively. It was true, and he appreciated that it didn’t bother Gabriel, even if Sherlock occasionally found the reality inconvenient.

“Irene’s probably come up with the same plan,” Gabriel continued. “And if I asked Charles what he thinks you’d do, he’d say exactly this, too, because – let’s be honest – both of you are a little bit insane.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked despite himself, and he saw the same wry humour reflected in Gabriel’s eyes.

“But,” Gabriel sighed. “This situation is a bit insane, too.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said. He didn’t actually agree with the terminology but the sentiment was accurate – this was dangerous, and made more so by the fact that an unknown actor was pulling the strings somewhere off-stage, in the darkness.

“You don’t think Lestrade will notice you’re gone?” Gabriel asked.

“Very likely,” Sherlock replied. “But what of it? I travel for business frequently, often on short notice, often for days at a time. I’m sure he’ll note it because he’s keeping an eye on you, but _you_ have been asked specifically to stay in London and in contact.” Gabriel drew a breath to reply, but Sherlock held up a hand, silently asking for patience. “Also, you _are_ planning a wedding. I neither need nor want Sandra to become suspicious.”

“You think John won’t be suspicious?” Gabriel asked, raising his eyebrows.

“We’re not getting married,” Sherlock said with a indifferent wave of his hand. “He’s accustomed to me being away for work.”

Gabriel sighed again, giving his head a shake.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t bother him.”

“Yes, but it will bother him less than it will bother Sandra,” Sherlock replied. “I doubt she’d be pleased if you were routinely shirking your duties. Especially as this involves another woman.”

“It’s not as though I’d be having an affair with Hawkins,” Gabriel said. “Neither will you. Unless I’ve seriously misread your intentions.”

Sherlock snorted softly, crossing his arms, at the flicker of amusement on his friend’s face.

“Hardly,” he said. “Besides, that’s much riskier. Friendship is much easier to establish. And I intend for her to be very aware that I’m gay.”

“Who are you planning on using for that, exactly? It can’t be John.”

“Obviously not. Get one of our Swedes. Someone blond and Nordic-looking should do the trick.”

“What’s the timeline for getting this set up?” Gabriel asked.

“Ten days. Delegate as necessary, but carefully. None of this traces back to you.” He scarcely needed to remind Gabriel of that last part, but voicing it gave it more weight. Gabriel nodded, and there was no reluctance or trepidation in his expression, even under Sherlock’s careful scrutiny for it.

It would be done, and it would be done perfectly. The man Janine Hawkins met would in no way, shape, or form be Sherlock Holmes. If Magnussen _was_ watching him, Sherlock would ensure that gaze did not track him to Jim Moriarty’s sister.

“A piece of advice?” Gabriel said, rising and distracting Sherlock from his thoughts. “Keep John from being neglected by this.”

“Meaning?” Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Go _home_ , Sherlock. Spend some time with him.”

“I will,” Sherlock replied, unperturbed by the order. John was, as he’d mentioned to Gabriel, used to Sherlock’s absences. “You should do the same.”

“I’m going to, although Sandra’s on nights, so it doesn’t matter much right now. I’ll see her in the morning. But the dog will be happy to see me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Gabriel grinned as he let himself out. Alone in the office again, Sherlock allowed himself to lapse back into thought, nowhere near as deeply or intensely as he had been previously.

He doubted John was home yet, even with the time it had taken to explain the plan in detail to Gabriel. Sherlock checked the tracking app he had on John’s phone, unsurprised but somewhat disappointed to find John was still at the pub.

He considered joining John and Bill briefly, but John had been right – Sherlock _would_ be bored. Although Bill was John’s friend and had saved John’s life – something for which Sherlock was grateful – he had never inspired much interest from Sherlock.

Best to leave John to it, he decided. His partner would have a better time, which would put him in a better mood when he eventually returned home.

With a sigh, Sherlock took the hint from the minor aches that were still lodged in his muscles, had Tina call Gerald while he gathered his belongings, and went home.


End file.
